ORATORY
SACRED AND SECULAR:
OR, THE
Extemporaneous Speaker,
WITH
SKETCHES OF THE MOST EMINENT SPEAKERS OF ALL AGES
BY WILLIAM PITTENGER,
Author of “Daring and Suffering.”
_INTRODUCTION BY HON. JOHN A. BINGHAM_,
AND
_APPENDIX_
CONTAINING A “CHAIRMAN’S GUIDE” FOR CONDUCTING PUBLIC MEETINGS ACCORDING
TO THE BEST PARLIAMENTARY MODELS.
New York:
SAMUEL R. WELLS, PUBLISHER, 389 BROADWAY.
1869.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868,
By SAMUEL R. WELLS.
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
EDWARD O. JENKINS,
PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,
20 North William Street.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
When we first began to speak in public, we felt the need of a manual
that would point out the hindrances likely to be met with, and serve as
a guide to self-improvement. Such help would have prevented many
difficult and painful experiences, and have rendered our progress in the
delightful art of coining thought into words more easy and rapid. In the
following pages we give the result of thought and observations in this
field, and trust it will benefit those who are now in the position we
were then.
We have freely availed ourself of the labor of others, and would
especially acknowledge the valuable assistance derived from the writings
of Bautain, Stevens and Holyoake. Yet the following work, with whatever
merit or demerit it may possess, is original in both thought and
arrangement.
We have treated general preparation with more than ordinary fullness,
for although often neglected, it is the necessary basis upon which all
special preparation rests.
As the numerous varieties of speech differ in comparatively few
particulars, we have treated one of the most common—that of preaching—in
detail, with only such brief notices of other forms as will direct the
student in applying general principles to the branch of oratory that
engages his attention.
We are not vain enough to believe that the modes of culture and
preparation pointed out in the following pages are invariably the best,
but they are such as we have found useful, and to the thoughtful mind
may suggest others still more valuable.
CONTENTS.
PREFACE.—Objects of the Work stated 3
INTRODUCTION—By Hon. JOHN A. BINGHAM, Member of Congress 7
=PART I.=—_GENERAL PREPARATIONS._
CHAPTER I.
THE WRITTEN AND EXTEMPORE DISCOURSE COMPARED—Illustrative Examples 13
CHAPTER II.
PREREQUISITES—Intellectual Competency; Strength of Body; Command of
Language; Courage; Firmness; Self-reliance 18
CHAPTER III.
BASIS OF SPEECH—Thought and Emotion; Heart Cultivation; Earnestness 27
CHAPTER IV.
ACQUIREMENTS—General Knowledge; of Bible; of Theology; of Men;
Method by which such Knowledge may be obtained 35
CHAPTER V.
CULTIVATION—Imagination; Language; Voice; Gesture; Confidence;
References to Distinguished Orators and Writers. 42
=PART II.=—_A SERMON._
CHAPTER I.
THE FOUNDATION FOR A PREACHER—Subject; Object; Text; Hints to Young
Preachers 69
CHAPTER II.
THE PLAN—Gathering Thought; Arranging; Committing; Practical
Suggestions; Use of Notes 80
CHAPTER III.
PRELIMINARIES FOR PREACHING—Fear; Vigor; Opening Exercises;
Requisites for a Successful Discourse 96
CHAPTER IV.
THE DIVISIONS—Introduction, Difficulties in Opening; Discussion,
Simplicity and Directness; Conclusion 104
CHAPTER V.
AFTER CONSIDERATIONS—Success; Rest; Improvement; Practical
Suggestions 115
=PART III.=—_SECULAR ORATORY._
CHAPTER I.
INSTRUCTIVE ADDRESS—Fields of Oratory; Oral Teaching; Lecturing 123
CHAPTER II.
MISCELLANEOUS ADDRESS—Deliberative; Legal; Popular; Controversial;
the Statesman; the Lawyer; the Lecturer; the Orator 127
=PART IV.=
EMINENT SPEAKERS DESCRIBED—St. Augustine; Luther; Lord Chatham;
William Pitt; Edmund Burke; Mirabeau; Patrick Henry; George
Whitefield; John Wesley; Sidney Smith; F. W. Robertson; Henry
Clay; Henry B. Bascom; John Summerfield; C. H. Spurgeon; Henry
Ward Beecher; Anna E. Dickinson; John A. Bingham; William E.
Gladstone; Matthew Simpson; Wendell Phillips; John P. Durbin;
Newman Hall, and others 133
=APPENDIX.=
THE CHAIRMAN’S GUIDE—How to Organize and Conduct Public Meetings
and Debating Clubs in Parliamentary style 199
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INTRODUCTORY LETTER.
REV. WM. PITTENGER: CADIZ, O., _19th Nov., 1867_.
DEAR SIR,—I thank you for calling my attention to your forthcoming work
on Extemporaneous Speaking. Unwritten speech is, in my judgment, the
more efficient method of public speaking, because it is the natural
method. The written essay, says an eminent critic of antiquity, “is not
a speech, unless you choose to call epistles speeches.” A cultivated
man, fully possessed of all the facts which relate to the subject of
which he would speak, who cannot clearly express himself without first
memorizing word for word his written preparation, can scarcely be called
a public speaker, whatever may be his capacity as a writer or reader.
The speaker who clothes his thoughts at the moment of utterance, and in
the presence of his hearers, will illustrate by his speech the admirable
saying of Seneca: “Fit words better than fine ones.”
It is not my purpose to enter upon any inquiry touching the gifts,
culture and practice necessary to make a powerful and successful
speaker. It is conceded that in the art of public speaking, as in all
other arts, there is no excellence without great labor. Neither is it
the intent of the writer to suggest the possibility of speaking
efficiently without the careful culture of voice and manner, of
intellect and heart, an exact knowledge of the subject, and a careful
arrangement, with or without writing, of all the facts and statements
involved in the discussion. Lord Brougham has said that a speech written
before delivery is regarded as something almost ridiculous; may we not
add, that a speech made without previous reflection or an accurate
knowledge of the subject, would be regarded as a mere tinkling cymbal. I
intend no depreciation of the elaborate written essay read for the
instruction or amusement of an assembly; but claim that the essay, read,
or recited from memory, is not speech, nor can it supply the place of
natural effective speech. The essay delivered is but the echo of the
dead past, the speech is the utterance of the living present. The
delivery of the essay is the formal act of memory, the delivery of the
unwritten speech the living act of intellect and heart. The difference
between the two is known and felt of all men. To all this it may be
answered that the ancient speakers, whose fame still survives, carefully
elaborated their speeches before delivery. The fact is admitted with the
further statement, that many of the speeches of the ancient orators
never were delivered at all. Five of the seven orations of Cicero
against Verres were never spoken, neither was the second Philippic
against Mark Antony, nor the reported defence of Milo. We admit that the
ancient speakers wrote much and practised much, and we would commend
their example, in all, save a formal recital of written preparations.
There is nothing in all that has come to us concerning ancient oratory,
which by any means proves that to be effective in speech, what is to be
said should be first written and memorized; there is much that shows,
that to enable one to express his own thoughts clearly and forcibly,
reflection, culture and practice are essential.
Lord Brougham, remarking on the habit of writing speeches, says: “That a
speech written before delivery is something anomalous, and a speech
intended to have been spoken is a kind of byword for something laughable
in itself, as describing an incongruous existence.” This distinguished
man, in his careful consideration of this subject, says: “We can hardly
assign any limits to the effects of great practise in giving a power of
extempore composition,” and notices that it is recorded of Demosthenes,
that when, upon some rare occasions, he trusted to the feeling of the
hour, and spoke off-hand, “his eloquence was more spirited and bold, and
he seemed sometimes to speak from a supernatural impulse.” If this be
true of the great Athenian who notoriously would not, if he could avoid
it, trust to the inspiration of the moment, and who for want of a
prepared speech, we are told by Æschines, failed before Philip,—might it
not be inferred that one practised in speaking, would utter his thoughts
with more spirit and power when not restrained by a written preparation
and fettered by its formal recital?
Did not Fox often, in the Parliament, achieve the highest results of
speech without previous written preparation; and is it not a fact never
to be questioned, that the wonderful speech of Webster, in reply to
Hayne, was unwritten?
In his admirable lecture on Eloquence, Mr. Emerson says: “Eloquence that
so astonishes, is only the exaggeration of a talent that is universal.
All men are competitors in this art. * * A man of this talent finds
himself cold in private company, and proves himself a heavy companion;
but give him a commanding occasion, and the inspiration of a great
multitude, and he surprises us by new and unlooked for powers.” * *
Indeed, there is in this lecture of Mr. Emerson, in few words, much to
sustain your theory. He says, “the word eloquence strictly means
out-speaking; the main power, sentiment—the essential fact is heat, the
heat which comes of sincerity. Speak what you know and believe, and are
personally answerable for. This goes by weight and measure, like
everything else in the universe. A man to be eloquent must have faith in
his subject, and must have accurate knowledge of that subject. * * The
author of power—he is the great man who always makes a divine
impression, a sentiment more powerful in the heart than love of country,
and gives perceptions and feelings far beyond the limits of thought.
Eloquence is the power to translate a truth into a language perfectly
intelligible to the person to whom you speak. Such a practical
conversion of truth, written in God’s language, is one of the most
beautiful weapons forged in the shop of the Divine Artificer. God and
Nature are altogether sincere, and art should be as sincere.” How can
sincerity be fully attained in the great art of public speech, if every
word to be uttered must be previously written down in the closet, and
memorized and recited? Was not Lord Brougham right in saying a speech
written before delivery is inconsistent with the inspiration of the
moment, and the feelings under which the orator is always supposed to
speak? What feelings? The felt-conviction of the truth of what he has to
say. What inspiration? The inspiration which, at the moment, clothes and
expresses the honest thought in appropriate words.
Surely the living voice, rightly cultivated, and rightly employed, is a
power in the world, and to condemn you for calling attention to what you
believe to the most efficient method of human speech, would be one of
those decisions of ignorant arrogance which it costs no labor and needs
no intellect to pronounce.
Is not the man who well and truthfully speaks his own thoughts, as
Shakspeare and Bacon wrote, in some sense their peer? Is not the mere
reciter of their words, but their shadow?
It is said of Plato, that he poured forth the flood of his eloquence as
by inspiration, and that, had the Father of the gods spoken in Greek, he
would have used none other language than Plato’s; and yet this master of
language takes pains, in reporting the apology of Socrates on trial for
his life, to represent him as saying that it would not become him to
speak “studied terms and expressions, but only the truth expressed in
the plainest language.” I quote the words of Socrates as given by Plato:
“Among the false statements which my accusers made, there was one at
which I especially marveled, namely when they warned you to take care
not to be led astray by me, inasmuch as I was a powerful speaker. It did
appear to me supremely audacious in them to make such an assertion,
Which must immediately afterwards be disproved by the fact; for you will
see that I have no skill in speaking, unless they call a man a powerful
speaker because he says what is true. If they mean this, I certainly
must allow that I am a speaker of a very different kind from them; for
they, as I have said, have not spoken a word of truth; from me you shall
hear the whole truth; and that not clothed in ornate sentences with
studied terms and expressions; you will have from me plain facts
expressed in the plainest language. Indeed, Athenians, it would ill
become me at my age to come before you with a studied discourse like a
boy. And there is one thing, O Athenians, which I must beg and entreat
of you: if I use, in my defense, the same terms which I have been
accustomed to use in the market-place and in the shops where most of you
have heard me talking, do not wonder at that, nor take offence. For this
is the fact, I now enter a court of justice for the first time, though I
am more than seventy years old; I am, therefore, altogether strange to
the kind of language used here; and therefore excuse me, as if I really
were a stranger, if I speak to you in that tone and in that manner in
which I have been brought up. I ask you a thing which is, I think,
reasonable, that you take no account of the manner of my address to
you—it might be better, it might be worse, perhaps—but to consider this,
to attend to this, whether I say what is right or not, for that is the
virtue of the judge, as to speak truly is the virtue of the advocate.”
No matter if the speech be not clothed in ornate sentences with studied
terms, it is the virtue of the judge to consider whether the speech is
right, as to speak truly is the virtue of the advocate.
It is only, it seems to me, when men speak wisely, truly and naturally,
that the full significance of Quintillian’s words can be realized: “May
I perish, if the all-powerful Creator of nature and the Architect of
this world has impressed man with any character which so eminently
distinguishes him as the faculty of speech.” Let him who would use this
faculty effectively, and attain to that great power which rules the
minds of men, and moves the passions and affections of the soul, see to
it, that he speaks what he knows and believes, plainly and directly from
the heart to the heart.
Very truly your friend,
JOHN A. BINGHAM.
PART I.
GENERAL PREPARATION.
CHAPTER I.
THE WRITTEN AND EXTEMPORE DISCOURSE COMPARED.
The special object of the following pages is to show the manner and
requirements of extempore preaching. But as this differs from other
methods of speech in its objects rather than in its external qualities,
many of the thoughts we present will apply as well to the bar and forum
as to the sacred desk.
There is need that this subject should be enforced, particularly on the
ministry. A growing desire is manifested to give up plain, direct
speech, and indulge in the ease and certainty of written sermons. Young
men find themselves in places where it requires unwearied exertion to
sustain their reputation, and satisfy the demands of a cultivated
audience. They begin to fear that their spoken sermons may be deficient
in polish and style, and at last they write. The people nearly always
protest against the innovation, but to no purpose, for having convinced
himself that he is right, the minister treats their murmurs as the
effect of vulgar prejudice, and as a frequent result, his usefulness is
permanently impaired.
This evil cannot be diminished by denouncing those who engage in it, for
the supposed necessity they labor under is stronger than any other
consideration. But it may be lessened by showing that there is a better
way, and making it plain. Such will be our endeavor.
The two extremes of speech are, the discourse which is written and read
verbatim, and that in which both words and thoughts are left to the
impulse of the moment. Between these there are many intermediate grades.
The latter may be excluded from the classification altogether, for no
wise man will adopt it except in some unforeseen emergency. True
extemporization relates to the words alone, and leaves full room for the
complete preparation of thought. Between this and the manuscript
discourse there are various compromises which seek to combine the
advantages of both. These, for the sake of convenience, may be called
the recited, composite, premeditated and sketched discourses.
It is useless to deny that the method of writing in full and reading,
possesses many and great advantages. It secures time for the
consideration of every thought. If the mind fags, the writer can pause
until it is rested and begin again; and in this way all the ideas and
expressions that occur for several days can be concentrated into one
sermon. Then it can be revised, and the language improved to an
indefinite extent, and the sermon, in its completeness, laid away for
future use.
But there are great disadvantages. Such a sermon may, by solidity of
thought, and brilliancy of expression, command approval, but it will
seldom move and sway the people. The very idea that all has been written
out, and is merely read, will tend powerfully to neutralize its effects.
We may remonstrate against this if we will, and declare that our sermons
should be judged by their substance, but this does not abate the
preference of our auditors. They will retort, with truth, that they can
read even better sermons at home, and dwell on them at their leisure.
What they want in preaching is the living sympathy and guidance of the
preacher; his soul burning and glowing, and thus lighting up other
souls; his eye beaming on theirs; his clear, far-seeing mind, excited by
the magnetism of truth, and appealing to their hearts with an
earnestness that will take no denial. This fills the popular ideal of
preaching, and no elaboration, no word music will atone for the want of
it. Men of great genius may succeed otherwise, but the mass of speakers
cannot.
The plan of memorizing and reciting sermons would seem, upon a
superficial view, to secure the advantages of reading without its
defects. But another and formidable class of disadvantages come into
being. Very few men can declaim well. For one who can speak from memory
with ease and naturalness, twenty can pour forth their ideas in the
words of the moment with energy and effect. A few have mastered the
difficult art, and won enduring laurels in this way, but their number is
too small to encourage others to imitation.
This practice also imposes a heavy burden on the mind. To write and
commit two or three sermons in a week, is a task that only those who are
strong in mental and physical health can perform with impunity, and even
then it requires too much time; for no matter how perfect a minister’s
sermons may be, unless he fulfills other duties, he cannot be wholly
successful. Most preachers who memorize, inevitably neglect pastoral
work because they have not time for it. And another effect follows that
is, if possible, still worse. Instead of growing daily in knowledge by
diligent study, the mind is kept on the tread-wheel task of writing and
committing sermons, and thus permanently dwarfed. A young man may take a
higher rank at first by memorizing, than otherwise, but he will not
retain it long, for the knowledge others accumulate while he is conning
his discourses, will soon place them above him.
The practice of committing brilliant passages to be recited with the
eyes withdrawn from the paper, or thrown into the current of
unpremeditated discourse, we have termed the composite manner. It is
open to all the objections urged against the last method, and a most
formidable one in addition—the difficulty of making these sudden flashes
fit into their proper places, and of preventing them from destroying the
unity of the whole discourse. They differ so widely from the rest of the
composition, that the audience are apt to see the artifice and despise
it. A skillful man may join them properly, but even then his own
attention, and that of the audience will, probably, be so closely fixed
upon them that the main design of the sermon will pass out of sight.
These three varieties are much alike, and may be called branches of the
word-preparation method. In them, words are carefully chosen, and form
the groundwork of discourse. The next three are based on thought.
The premeditated discourse comes nearest to the word method. It was the
medium of the wonderful eloquence of the late Bishop Bascom. In it the
ideas are first arranged, and then each thought pondered until it
resolves itself into words, which are mostly recalled in the moment of
speech. Men who speak thus usually have great command of language and
much fixity of impression. Those who receive ideas readily, and lose
them again as easily, could not adopt this method, for words previously
arranged could not be recalled in the same order, unless they had been
fixed by the pen. There is little objection to this mode of preparation
in the case of those who are adapted to it, provided they do not carry
it so far as to feel burdened or confused. No words should be left in
charge of the memory, and no conscious effort made to recall particular
expressions.
Stevens, in his admirable book called “Preaching Required by the Times,”
advises ministers, when revolving and arranging their ideas, not to let
them run into words. We can see no ill effect in this, provided the
result is a natural one. All the words must be retained easily in the
memory, and not sought for if they do not spontaneously present
themselves in the act of speech. President Lincoln, who was a most
effective off-hand speaker, said, that he owed his skill in this art to
the early practice of reducing every thought he entertained to the
plainest and simplest words. Then when he desired to enunciate an idea
he had no difficulty in giving it a form that even a child could
understand.
The sketched discourse approaches very closely to the purely extempore
method, and only differs from it in writing the whole matter in full,
with no care for style, simply to practice in the art of expression, and
to test our mastery of the plan arranged. In it there is no intention of
memorizing, or of using the same words again, except so far as the ideas
in their simplest form may suggest them. This is only doing on paper
what, in the last method, was done mentally. It may be of great
advantage to those who have had but a limited experience, and cannot so
clearly grasp their ideas in the domain of pure thought as to be sure
that they are fully adapted to the purposes of their sermons.
But at the slow rate of writing in the common hand, this requires too
much time. If a person have mastered Phonography, or Tachygraphy, a
valuable improvement of the former, more easily acquired and retained in
practice, he may write a sermon in little more than the time it will
take to preach it, if he only work at full speed and do not stay for the
niceties of style. Then the defects in the arrangement or material, that
before escaped his attention, will be brought to light. We can judge a
sermon more impartially when it is placed outside of the mind, than if
it were only mentally reviewed, and we still have time to correct
whatever may be amiss.
But the great method of which the two former are mere branches, and
which in fact underlies every other, is that of pure extemporization. In
this there is a firm, compact road of previously prepared thought
leading directly to the object aimed at. When thus speaking, we always
feel on solid ground, and each moment have the proper, selected idea,
seeking expression, and clothing itself in the needed words. All men
talk thus, and we cannot but regard it as the highest form of oratory.
When we have obtained complete mastery of expression, and the ability to
so arrange facts and ideas, that at the fitting moment they will resolve
themselves into words, the high problem of eloquence is in a great
measure solved.
CHAPTER II.
PREREQUISITES—INTELLECTUAL COMPETENCY—STRENGTH OF BODY—COMMAND OF
LANGUAGE—COURAGE—FIRMNESS.
Almost every speaker has at some time longed to obtain the golden power
of eloquence. It always insures to its fortunate possessor a strong
influence in the affairs of men. It is needed in the promotion of every
reform, and is the only means by which the minds of a community can be
at once moved in a new direction. When employed in the service of error
and injustice it is like a fallen archangel’s power for evil. But its
highest and purest sphere is in the promulgation of revealed truth. It
there brings the word of God into living contact with the souls of men,
and by it molds them into a higher life. It is sublime to be a co-worker
with God, and thus assist him in peopling heaven.
Only the method of eloquence can be taught. Its refined and ethereal
substance lies beyond the reach of all art. No preacher can be truly
eloquent without the baptism of the Holy Spirit, and even the excited
passion and burning enthusiasm which are the human sources of this
quality, can be acquired by no formularies. But they may be developed
and properly directed where a capability for them exists. In this
respect there is the widest difference of talent. Some men never can
attain the wondrous power of swaying their fellow-beings. Others are
born orators. The latter class is small, and it is never safe to
conclude that we belong to it until the fact has been incontestably
proved. Neither is the class of incapables very large. The great mass of
men lie between the extremes. Their talents do not make them great in
spite of themselves; but if they make the proper effort, and are favored
by circumstances, they may become effective, and even eloquent speakers.
To these it is of great importance to have the right road pointed out,
along which they may travel, and by earnest toil gain the desired end.
There is no “royal road” to eloquence, but here, as elsewhere,
application and study will produce their proper effects. Yet certain
prerequisites must be received from God himself, without which all
cultivation will be vain as the attempt to fertilize the sands of the
seashore.
The first quality to which we will refer, is intellectual competency. By
this, we mean a strength of intellect that can grasp an idea, and form a
complete image of it; one who is not able to think out a subject in its
leading features, cannot speak on it, and if the deficiency be general,
he is unfitted to speak in public at all. We would not assert that none
but men of commanding intelligence can profitably address their
fellow-beings. It is not even necessary that the orator should be above
the average of mental power possessed by his audience. Franklin was
entranced by the preaching of Whitefield, though in grasp and compass of
mind almost infinitely his superior. A man of comparative dullness may,
by brooding over a particular subject, so master it, that the greatest
intellect will listen to him with reverence and profit. The great German
poet, Goethe, said that he met few men from whom he did not learn
something valuable. But no man ought to address the people unless he can
clearly comprehend the nature of his subject, mark out its limitations,
understand its relations to other subjects, and so arrange and simplify
it as to convey these ideas to his hearers. The Christian minister has
to deal with a great variety of topics, and requires mind enough to
grasp not one only, but many subjects.
It is hard to determine just how much mental power is required to secure
a moderate degree of success as an orator. No precise rules can be given
on this point, and if they could, egotism would prevent each from
applying them to himself however correctly he might gauge his neighbor.
The presumptuous would do well to remember that oratory is the highest
of all arts, and to measure themselves with becoming humility; perhaps
the following questions may aid in self-examination. Can you grasp an
idea firmly? can you follow its ramifications, perceive its shades of
meaning, and render it familiar in all its bearings? Can you analyze it
clearly, so that each separate part will be understood by itself, and
then again link these together and make each serve as a stepping-stone
to the comprehension of that which follows? If you can do this with a
single subject, you have the mental power to speak on that subject; if
on all, or many of the subjects of the Christian religion, vast and
varied as they are, you can preach. No deficiency of intellectual power
or originality need dishearten you.
The fact of the close and mutual influence of body and mind is beyond
dispute, although their connection is a subject of deep mystery. When we
see how much the faculties of reason and imagination—nay, even of hope,
love, and faith—are affected by bodily conditions, we can only exclaim
with the Psalmist, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Especially is
this mutual dependence forced upon the attention of the extempore
speaker. In every effort he feels the subtle effect of physical causes,
and often under the pressure of disease, strives in vain to realize the
grand but intangible thoughts that float through his brain. The body is
the instrument of the mind in its communication with the outward world,
and even if the most sublime and glorious conceptions existed within,
they would be powerless if the bodily organs were unequal to the task of
expressing them.
A dumb man cannot be an orator, no matter how richly endowed; and all
other bodily defects will be felt as hindrances even if they fall short
of the deprivation of an organ of sense. The preacher needs to be a
completely developed man physically, as well as mentally, though he may
succeed in spite of many disadvantages. Feeble health will always
detract from his power. The mind may for a time rise superior to it, but
a crushing recoil will follow. This takes place when the ill-health is
not extreme; but when it fetters the ability of expression, and prevents
the manifestation of living power, the barrier is absolute. Many
ministers utterly fail, because they forget that eloquence is the
offspring of health; others, perhaps, still more unfortunate have
battled against disease and bodily infirmity for years, and yet have
been doomed to feel, amid their brightest aspirations, that a power
beyond their control was conquering them. It is terrible to sit
helpless, and see a cloud stealing over the brightness of genius, and
shading the whole future of life. Yet this has been the experience of
thousands. We remember an impressive illustration of this in the case of
one who possessed the richest endowments. He was almost unequaled as a
pulpit orator, yet, in the middle of life, saw his powers of usefulness
withdrawn, and his fame fading—only because his body could not bear the
strain he unwisely put upon it.
In view of the many facts of this kind, it would be well for the man who
aspires to eminence in the fields of eloquence, to examine himself, and
see if he have the needed physical strength. With some the incapacity is
no doubt total. How many ministers have had their light turned into
darkness by a diseased throat, a cerebral affection, or a nervous
disorder? But the majority of men only need care and obedience to the
laws of life to bring their bodies up to the standard of efficiency. In
youth, at least, there is nothing so easily improved as health. By the
golden rule of temperance in all things—in voice and thought, as well as
food and drink—nearly all may render the body adequate to the
manifestation of mind.
To an orator, the power of readily clothing his thoughts in words is
indispensable. Language is the dress of ideas—the means by which they
are communicated to others. The thoughts that arise in our minds resolve
themselves into words as naturally as the clouds do into falling
showers. We use words to some degree in our most secret meditations, and
whenever the latter become clear and well defined they fall into
language without conscious effort. To cause them to do this with
precision and certainty is one of the problems of extempore speech. The
thought is prepared in advance, but is to be coined into words at the
moment. If the faculty of language is weak this cannot be done without
such hesitation and embarrassment as greatly to diminish the effect; but
if strong, a tide of words will be poured forth without apparent effort.
Even in common conversation, a wide difference in point of fluency may
be observed. In fact, it was this which gave Gall the first hint that
led to the establishment of Phrenology.
No doubt this faculty may be greatly cultivated and improved, but when
its original strength is very small, it can not, probably, be made
available for ready and powerful speech. There are persons whose voices
seem to have no defect, who cannot learn to sing; others, with eyes
perfectly organized, are unable to distinguish between colors. The power
of language may be equally deficient in an otherwise well-constituted
mind. We once knew a man who could not find the words necessary to make
the most common statement without long and embarrassed pauses. He forgot
the names of his nearest neighbors; and, when telling a story, required
perpetual prompting wherever names occurred, and would often hesitate
until some every-day term was suggested to him. No cultivation would
have made him a speaker. He had as much education as his neighbors
around, and was not remarkably dull. He was simply an almost wordless
man. Many persons suffer in the same manner, though but few to the same
degree.
But the mere fact that a man is slow of speech is no bar even to the
highest eminence as an orator. The proper test of the power of this
faculty is in common conversation. There one feels perfectly at ease,
and deals with matters he understands. If he have but a moderate share
of fluency, he will have no difficulty in conveying his ideas. But if he
does experience such difficulty, it shows a radical defect which art can
never remove. But we should not be discouraged if it is hard to find
appropriate words when speaking on unfamiliar subjects, for we cannot
have words to express ideas before possessing the ideas themselves!
Those who are deficient in language, but have strong powers of thought,
are almost the only persons who really find relief in writing and
reading their sermons. If they have time to wait, the right word may
come to them, or they can search through dictionaries for it; but in the
hurry of speech there is no such leisure for selection. They have some
excuse for writing, though it will still be questionable whether it
would not be better for them to dash ahead with the loss of some
precision, or if this cannot be done, abandon altogether a profession
for which they are so obviously unfitted.
A man must have a degree of courage to place himself within reach of any
danger, and remain there. If he be destitute of it, he will resign the
hope of victory rather than encounter the perils by which it may be won.
It is needed in extempore speaking as well as in any species of physical
danger, for the perils to be encountered are not less terrible. To some
sensitive minds these even amount to a species of martyrdom. They go to
the desk trembling in every limb, and would feel wonderfully relieved if
they could exchange their position for the tented field, where the
warfare would be of the body only, and not of the spirit. Some of the
greatest orators have never been able to entirely overcome this feeling,
although they may have been free from the fear of failure.
But it is difficult to be perfectly assured even against failure. “There
is nothing so fitful as eloquence,” says the Abbe Bautain, who was well
qualified to judge. The practiced and prepared orator does not often
dread losing command of words altogether, and being obliged to close
before the proper time, but fears that his rich and glowing conceptions
may fade, and his high ideal be unattained.
Mere boldness does not suffice to protect a speaker from these dangers.
Of what avail is a man’s courage if his brain be clouded and his tongue
paralyzed? He cannot brave the consequences, for the power of ridicule
is too keen for any armor—at least when it comes in such a concentrated
volume as falls on the head of the unfortunate speaker who can not
finish what he has begun. At such a time the boaster’s fate is worst of
all; for, while others are pitied, he is crushed beneath the scorn and
triumph of his audience. There is no positive guard against failure.
Public speaking is a modern battle, in which the most skillful warrior
may be stricken down by a random bullet—the bravest slain by a coward!
What then is the benefit of courage? We have placed it in the list of
essential qualities, and believe the orator cannot succeed without it.
It does not operate by rendering failure impossible, or even materially
reducing the risk, but by enabling us to endure all danger and press on.
Bonaparte said that most generals failed in one point—they delayed to
attack when it became necessary to fight a great battle. The issue was
so uncertain—so far beyond the reach of human wisdom—that they hesitated
and deliberated until the favorable moment had passed forever. In war
this timid policy courts destruction, by permitting the adversary to
choose his own time to strike. The same principle governs in other
affairs. The risk must be taken. A man of courage derives new lessons
from his failures, and makes them the introduction to future triumphs.
Especially in the field of oratory is there no possibility of success,
if this indomitable, persevering spirit be wanting. Many persons of
excellent talents have been condemned to perpetual silence, because they
would not endure the perils of speech. Men who have instructed the world
by their pens, and in the privacy of the social circle have charmed
their friends by the magic of their conversation, have never spoken in
public because they shrunk from the inevitable hazard. There is no
difficulty in determining whether we possess this quality or not. Let
the trial be made, and if we do not abandon our posts and incur disgrace
rather than speak, we have all the boldness that is needed.
The quality of firmness in oratory is sometimes undervalued. While
steady, persevering industry, working toward a definite end, is known to
be essential in everything else, in this field genius is often supposed
to be sufficient. There never was a greater mistake. Nature does lay the
foundation broad and deep for some men, but they must build diligently
upon it to make their gifts availing. The way to eminence, even for the
favored few, is long and hard, requiring deep thought and earnest
striving, and without a strong purpose fixed in the very beginning, and
firmly adhered to through years of labor, there is slight chance of
success. A few persons have risen to eminence without appearing to pay
the price for it, but such exceptions are more apparent than real. There
are times of great excitement, when some one before unknown is able to
speak so as to fix the eyes of the nation upon himself, but unless he
has been previously prepared, and continues to put forth resolute
effort, his success is but transitory.
The career of Patrick Henry is adduced as an instance of success without
labor. He had little education in the schools, but learned much from
Nature herself. His observation was tireless. It is said, that when he
kept a country store, he would sit and question his customers by the
hour, causing them to display their various dispositions. He was thus
learning to play upon the human heart, and as this was only one
manifestation of a ruling passion, it doubtless took a hundred other
forms. When on those long hunting excursions in the beautiful valley of
Virginia, how many deep and ineffaceable impressions must have been made
on his mind. He had a peerless genius, yet all we can learn of him leads
us to believe that he cultivated it to the utmost, at least as applied
to oratory.
The familiar examples of Demosthenes and Cicero are not solitary ones.
All who have acquired the power of effective speech have toiled long and
patiently. The poor, weak waverer can never be an orator in the highest
sense of the term, however he may, on special occasions, flash into
momentary brilliancy. And as the minister of the Gospel must cultivate
the most difficult field of eloquence, we advise no one to attempt
preaching who is not conscious of a strong, unchangeable purpose—a
purpose that will bear delay, discouragement and weary waiting.
Of course, the nature of all the results obtained through our firmness
will depend on the direction of our efforts. If personal ambition, or
pecuniary profit be the object toward which we bend our energies, the
grand and holy character of the Christian ministry will be lost sight
of. But let our aim be unselfish, and our success will be pure and
noble.
To him who has a mind to conceive, a body with strength to execute,
language to coin the mass of thoughts into words, courage to bear the
scrutiny of a thousand eyes, and firmness that will endure the toil of
preparation—to him the upward pathway is clear. He may not win great
fame, but he will be able to present the truth in its native beauty, and
make his words fall with weight and power on the hearts of men.
CHAPTER III.
BASIS OF SPEECH—THOUGHT AND EMOTION—HEART CULTIVATION.
Thought and emotion are two prime elements in the manifestations of
mind. All the products of mental action, unless it be the mysterious
power of will, are divided between them, and by them, through various
means of expression, we reach and influence the outward world.
Thought springs from the intellect, and acts upon the facts received
from every source, retaining, arranging and modifying them at will.
Feeling is the mind’s response to all these, and comprises fear, love,
hope, faith, hatred and all the sentiments and emotions that are
described under the general name of “the heart.” Speech is founded on
these two elements, which meet and mingle in every human production,
though seldom in the same proportion. The speaker who has greatest
mastery of one, is often most deficient in the other. But if so, the
whole range of eloquence is not open to him. He is only a half-developed
orator, and his usefulness will be very much narrowed.
A man of deep thought but sluggish emotion, may enchain the attention of
an assembly by the novel and far-reaching views he presents and the
ability with which he unfolds them, but the whole discourse will be dull
and lifeless. He will find it very difficult to move his hearers to
action. They may assent to every word he utters, and yet continue in
their own course. Every minister’s experience furnishes proof that it is
not enough to convince, or it would be very easy to convert the world.
At times it is right to use the sword of intellect alone. In
controversy, for example, a solid basis of reasoning must be laid before
anything else can be done. But it is not always enough. Men are led as
often by their sentiments and intuitions as by their judgments, and we
are allowed to use all lawful means to win them. Even the pure light of
truth is not always to be discovered through the intellect alone. A mere
feeling of what is right, or just, or true, often leads, in an instant,
to a conviction that all subsequent reasoning can only strengthen. The
ideal orator, therefore, is one who, even in argument, can show the
truth, and then, by a flash of heavenly sympathy, change our cold assent
into fervent conviction.
On the other hand, a man of predominant feeling may make us weep, but as
we see no reason for it, we resist the emotion to the extent of our
power. If we yield, a reaction follows, and we go away ashamed of what
we cannot justify. Of this class were some of the early Methodist
preachers—the weeping prophets, as they were termed. Their tears, and
the feeling with which they spoke, were often irresistible, and by the
mere force of sympathy, men who had very little intellectual power were
able to sway the passions of an audience at will. But had it not been
for some of their brethren, who were men of thought as well as
emotion—men who had clear heads to organize and combine, as well as
tears to shed, the effect of their labor would have been evanescent as
the emotions they excited.
Continuity is a highly important quality of thought. All men think; they
cannot help it, for the mind is ever active. But with most these
thoughts are but random flashes—illuminated pictures—that arise for a
moment, and then vanish to give place to others. Powerful thinking
consists in holding these scattered images together in a chain, and
making them run uninterruptedly from one point to another. There is no
man who does not at times catch glimpses of far-reaching, profound
thoughts; but before he can combine them into harmony and place them in
their proper relation to other thoughts, they disappear, and he may
search long before he will find them again. All persons see the beauties
of natural scenery, but it is only the poet who can reproduce the
scattered elements and combine them into a harmonious description. Only
the true thinker can gather the fragments of thought that flash through
the mind, and give them form and consistency. This power is
indispensable to the speaker. He must give, not a mere gallery of
pictures, however beautiful they may be, but a succession of thoughts,
naturally connected, by which the mind advances step by step through the
discourse, without jar or interruption. We will endeavor to give some
directions for the acquisition of this power, as far as may be necessary
in extempore speaking. The capability of thought must indeed be
possessed or all cultivation will be vain; but if the mind have any
native vigor, it can learn to think consecutively and methodically, even
as the unskilled but perfectly organized hand may be taught to carve
beautiful and complicated forms.
As a general rule, men can be more easily moved by appeals made to their
feelings than to their reason, and find the most masterly dissertation
cold and lifeless unless relieved by some touches of humanity and
passion. A man who does not possess true feeling cannot so counterfeit
it as to reach the hearts of others, but he may, in a great measure,
transform his own nature and acquire it. The most essential
qualification for a religious teacher is a deep personal religious
experience. One who has never passed through the mystic, mingled sorrow
and joy of penitence and the agony of remorse—has never watched with
straining eyes for the dawning light of salvation, and at last been
enabled to say, “Abba, Father!” such a one cannot preach the gospel with
power and success. His speech may glitter with all the flowers of
rhetoric and the form of words be complete, but the vast power of the
earnest soul sympathizing with all the lips utter, will be absent.
Without genuine experience, our preaching will be apt to fall into that
loose generalization which can do no good. For it is only when we plant
our feet on living realities—those we have tested and know to be sure,
and deal in particular, specified facts, that we are able to pierce
through all the folds of ignorance and self-love, and awaken an echo of
the conscience within.
As a mere form of knowledge, the experience of God’s dealings with the
awakened soul is more valuable than any other lore. But its great
advantage to the preacher is not the increase of knowledge. It produces
a tide of emotion that can never sleep until the judgment day. It
connects the Cross and the divine Sufferer with cords of living sympathy
that always thrill to the very centre of our being. Conversion
invariably deepens and intensifies the emotions of our nature; and if
the speaker has passed through a strongly marked change he will have the
power of imparting his impressions to others, and of giving to his
descriptions the inimitable charm of reality. If his religious
experience accords with the Bible, he can speak from his own heart with
almost irresistible force. This was the secret of the power wielded by
Luther, Wesley, Whitefield and others who have shaken the world. Thus
prepared, John Bunyan wrote the most wonderful book of any age—recorded
the world’s experience in religion, and made the cold, dead realms of
allegory flash with life. He laid the spell of his genius on all alike,
and the child prattles of the burdened pilgrim with the giants in his
way, while the old man is cheered by the light that streams down from
the high hill on which the city is built. The reason of his power is
simply that he wrote his own spiritual experience in the language of
truth. He had stood at the bar of Vanity Fair, had fought with the
fiends, and groped his way through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
From the depths of his own heart, torn by internal conflict, or healed
and made happy by a heavenly anointing, he drew the images that glow
with all the color of life in his marvelous book.
Love is the mightiest of all forces, and Jesus was revealed to draw unto
himself the love of the universe. Let the minister learn of him, and he
will be able to speak as he never spoke before. He will strike the
key-note of that song whose solemn music has rolled down through the
centuries, and will wax louder and clearer until time shall be no more.
The story of the Cross, with all that depends upon it, forms principal
part of the Christian orator’s theme. But he has other duties. His work
is broad as human life. He stands by the bed of sickness; he weeps with
the mourners when the last flutter of life is stilled, and strives to
lift their eyes to the victor over death; he warns the impenitent of
coming woe. It is his to deal with the highest and holiest emotions of
the heart. And how can he touch these delicate chords gently, but
firmly—not shrinking from the infliction of necessary pain, yet never
causing a tear to flow “in the mere wantonness of grief”—unless he has
passed through sorrow’s deep waters? He must have unfeigned sympathy for
all, and be able to express it plainly and tenderly.
This power, both of feeling and expression, may be greatly increased by
exercise. If the preacher will enter the abodes of rich and poor alike,
and take a friendly interest in their hopes and fears, their joys and
sorrows, he will find his heart drawn out toward them, and when he
addresses them in public, it will be with far more intense anxiety for
their good than if they were strangers. It will be comparatively easy
for him to throw his heart into all he says.
There are two methods of cultivating genuine emotion that we would
cordially recommend to all desirous of swaying the hearts of the people.
The first is prayer. We need not enlarge on its general benefits, but
will notice its effect on sacred oratory. The man who often addresses
God in prayer is in the very best school of eloquence. It brings us
close to Him, and in the awful light of His purity, we more clearly see
anything that is bad in our hearts and strive to cast it out. As we pray
for others, and spread their needs before him, we cannot fail to be
inspired with a stronger desire for their welfare. Then, too, religion
becomes something more than a mere form of words, and our hearts burn
with a stronger flame. We speak now of prayer as it should be—a warm,
pure, fervent outpouring of the heart to God. This is more difficult in
the public congregation, for then many disturbing elements are brought
to bear on the person praying. The listening people are apt to be in the
preacher’s thoughts, and prevent him from enjoying simple and direct
communion with heaven. It is the prayer “when none but God is nigh,”
that will stir his heart to its profoundest depths and put his mind in
the right frame for delivering his sermons. Let any one pray earnestly
for help from above all the time his sermons are in course of
preparation, and he will be surprised to find how much of the coldness
and deadness supposed to belong to this species of composition will be
swept away, and how beautifully over all will be spread the vivid charm
of real experience. Yet we must not restrict our prayers to this time,
for God may not meet us in loving friendship if we only approach him
when we have a favor to ask. To reap the full benefit of prayer, it
should be a habit woven into our life, and continued on every occasion.
This will rebuke sinful ambition and moderate that sensitiveness which
has reference to the opinions of our fellow-beings. Thus armed, the
preacher will come as the messenger of God, rather than the caterer to
men’s fancies. And from the mere operation of natural causes, he will
speak with a boldness and earnestness that will draw the hearts of men
as the magnet does the steel.
But prayer is far more than the means of cultivating emotion. There is a
direct influence that comes from God to man. The power of the Holy
Spirit is no fable. A heavenly anointing is sent down—an unction that
gives sweetness and power even to the most commonplace words. It is not
bestowed unasked, for God desires that we should feel the need of His
high gifts before they are granted. But when humbly implored, there is
often breathed an influence from above, mighty to sustain the faithful
minister in his task. What an encouraging but awful thought! God himself
stands by us in the time of our weakness and gives us His strength. If
the minister would always go to the pulpit with this assurance, he would
not fear the mass of upturned faces, but calmly view them with a heart
stayed on the Master whose work he has to do.
The Spirit’s presence will not in the least absolve us from the need of
complete preparation. In nothing is it more true that God helps those
who help themselves. All that we contend for is such an influence as
will cause the words uttered to penetrate the souls of those for whom
they were spoken, remove the fear of man from the preacher’s heart, and
make him bold in speaking the truth. It may be that clearer knowledge
will be given, and the most fitting selection of words suggested, but
this can only be hoped for after all preparation is made. God does not
duplicate his work, and that which he gives man faculties to discover,
he will not afterward bring to him by an express revelation.
The second method of imparting unction and feeling to the coldness of
thought, is by meditating on the great truths and promises of
Christianity. This subject is well treated in Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest,”
though not with reference to the wants of the orator. The power of
long-continued and earnest meditation varies in different persons, but
all can acquire it to some degree. It may be defined as a method of
transporting ones-self from a sense of the present reality to an ideal
situation—reaching and experiencing the feelings that would naturally
arise in that situation. Thus we may experience some of the pleasures of
heaven and the society of the blest. We may walk the plains of Galilee
with the Lord and behold his wondrous love there manifested, almost as
if we mingled with the throng who hung on his gracious words; we may
turn to the time of our own conversion, and recall the passage from
despair to conscious life; or look forward to the day of our death, and
think of its mingled sorrow and triumph. It is a kind of waking dream by
which the mind is filled with one idea to the exclusion of all others.
And when we select some high object of contemplation and return often to
it, we acquire a susceptibility of strong and fervent emotion on that
subject which it requires only a word to arouse. An illustration of this
is often found in the case of an inventor or discoverer who has dwelt on
one subject until his whole mind is filled with it, and he cannot hear
it mentioned without the deepest feeling. However cold and listless he
may be on other subjects, touch but the sacred one of his fancy, and his
sparkling eye and animated voice tell how deeply you have roused the
whole man. What an advantage it must be to the extempore speaker, with
whom everything depends on feeling, to have all the cardinal facts he
proclaims surrounded by fountains of holy emotion, continually supplied
from the spring of meditation, and ready to flow copiously at the
slightest touch! Such trains of thought may be carried on in moments too
often given to idleness, and thus, not only will a mighty power be added
to our pulpit ministrations, but our whole life ennobled and enriched.
It has been conjectured that Milton’s mind, while composing “Paradise
Lost,” existed in the state of a sublime waking dream, in which the
forms of heaven and hell, chaos and creation, all mingled in one
glorious vision. Something of this nature, though not necessarily
continuous, must take place in the mental history of every true and
powerful Christian minister.
CHAPTER IV.
ACQUIREMENTS.—KNOWLEDGE, GENERAL—OF BIBLE, OF THEOLOGY, OF MEN.
Thought is the workman of the mind, and requires materials upon which to
labor. We are such creatures of experience that we cannot go far beyond
a foundation of fact, or weave long trains of pure imagination. In the
wildest fiction the mind can only combine and rearrange what was
previously known. This necessity rests with added weight upon the
preacher. He cannot invent his materials in the sense the poet can, but
must confine himself to the statement of unadulterated truth.
Fortunately, he has no narrow field to explore, for all knowledge is
related to his themes. He has to speak of God, by whom everything
exists, and whose glory shines through all the works of his hand. The
truths he utters apply to the whole circle of life and its duties, yet
are so familiar and so often neglected, that he needs all his power to
make them touch the popular heart. There is no science that may not at
times be made available for illustrating or enforcing the word of God.
The want of extended knowledge will be more severely felt by an
extempore preacher, than by one who reads or recites. The latter has
time for selection, and may take the parts of a subject with which he is
familiar and pass over all others. But the former will find this very
dangerous. Extemporizing should be free and unfettered. The speaker must
be able to see his own way, and make it clear to his hearers. If he is
always anxious to avoid dangerous obstructions and steer around them, he
will lose that free flow of ideas in which much of the beauty of
unstudied speech consists. Let the man, therefore, who looks to the
preacher’s vocation, lay the foundation broad and deep in a complete
education, not only in that of the schools, for the knowledge they teach
is very defective, but let him know all the facts that hinge on common
life; the processes of the different pursuits and trades; the subjects
that most occupy the human mind; the arts and sciences in their wide
departments. We have no hesitation in affirming that preaching ought to
be more scientific than it often is; that is, when the preacher deals
with the phenomena of nature, he should speak of them in their true
form, as revealed by science, and not indulge in loose generalities or
popular misstatements. If he master these and all other branches of
knowledge, he will have at hand a fund of illustration that will never
grow old, and instead of being under the necessity of turning over books
of sermons, and hunting out figures of speech that have done duty for
generations, he will be supplied from nature’s great volume with those
that are ever fresh and new. They will be redolent of the morning dew,
the sparkle of sunlight, the life of humanity, rather than the must of
books.
This knowledge constitutes only the rough material of thought. It is the
dust out of which the body is to be formed, and into which the breath of
life is to be breathed. The power of thinking comes from no accumulated
intellectual stores, but springs from the living energy of the soul
within. It is above all dead brute force, and fills a world of its own.
But we would lay the foundation of success in oratory by giving the mind
food, and providing for it a general acquaintance with the universe.
This may be superficial, for it is not given to man to be profound in
everything, but it will suffice to keep the preacher within the bounds
of truth, when, for a time, he leaves his own province.
But within that province, and on all topics he undertakes to discuss,
his knowledge should not be superficial. He must here hold out no false
light to lure mankind, but must speak because he knows the truth, and
feels that others ought to know it. He will then speak—and in his own
department he has the right to speak—“not as the Scribes and Pharisees,
but as one having authority.”
To this end the preacher must study the Bible most thoroughly. It is the
book from which he obtains his subjects, and the most powerful arguments
by which they are enforced. He must meditate on it by day and night with
earnest, loving zeal. There is not much profit in merely reading it
through once or twice a year. Read it prayerfully. Study the sense.
Strive to make it a living book. Realize the scenes it describes, the
events it records, and the deep mysteries it unfolds. There is no study
that will increase oratorical power more rapidly than the investigation
of the Holy Scriptures. They are the best models of eloquence, the
exhaustless armory from which the preacher draws his weapons. To be
“mighty in the Scriptures” is one of the highest recommendations he can
have; and, on the other hand, ignorance of the book it will be his life
labor to expound, is unpardonable, and will expose him to merited
contempt.
Many books will be needed in forming a critical, living comprehension of
the Bible. The student should become familiar with the present aspect of
Palestine and the manners and customs of former ages. Judicious
commentaries will help him to penetrate through the covering which
thoughtlessness and familiarity have woven over the sacred page, down to
its vital meaning. Ancient history and Bible dictionaries will make
plain many obscure passages. But above all, the Holy Spirit throws a
flood of light over the whole book, and makes its dark places shine with
the radiance of truth. Get this first, in a living baptism, and all else
will be easy.
A knowledge of Theology is essential. It comes not with the same
authority as the Word, for it is only man’s interpretation of what God
has revealed, and no one has a right to bind others by the rule of his
own weak judgment. Yet we cannot despise assistance even here. He would
be very foolish who would insist on ignoring the light of science and
the accumulated lore of ages, that he might discover all truth for
himself. Life is so short and man’s intellect so slow, that an
individual standing alone would never get beyond the state of a savage.
We can weigh the evidence of truth in an hour that has taken years or
ages to discover. There is no way but to accept the aid of others even
in the matters that relate to God and our own souls, and use it to build
up a complete system of knowledge, being careful not to surrender our
independence of thought, nor do violence to our conscience.
The knowledge of what men have thought and done in the field of
revelation is indispensable. Without some degree of it no man is
prepared for the sacred office. It need not all be attained before
beginning to preach, but should be a constant aim. The preacher should
always be a diligent student. He will never reach the end. Even when his
head is whitening for the grave he will find the book of God an
unexhausted mine, and the interest of newly-discovered truth will impart
such charm and vigor to his discourses that they will never grow old.
Theology is a vast science, embracing all others—an infinite field where
man may exert all his powers, and never cease for want of new realms to
explore.
The preacher labors in the field of humanity, and aims to better the
present and future condition of mankind. He needs to understand his
ground, as well as the instruments of his labor. It is through him that
divine truth reaches the hearts of the multitude. Unless he can cause
the people to think new thoughts, and be ruled by new motives, wisdom
and learning and brilliancy are all in vain. A knowledge of the heart,
and of the best methods of reaching it, are of first importance. No
matter if the preacher speaks a truth; unless that particular truth has
an adaptation to the present wants of those whom he addresses, it will
be, in a great measure, unfruitful. The love of God, the story of the
Cross, with many other things revealed in the Bible, are suited to all
ages and all men. But the consolations intended for a time of sorrow
would fall strangely on the ear of a bridal party. Exhortations to
repentance would be lost upon a congregation of sincere Christians.
Different shades of experience need to be met by appropriate
instruction; and the minister who does not watch all changing
circumstances, and carefully adapt his words to them, will fail of the
highest usefulness. It may be objected that, in large assemblies, the
presentation of any truth will benefit some person, and that all cannot
be reached at once. This is partly true; but the attentive minister will
find currents of thought moving in his congregation from day to day, and
will be surprised to see how often the people are thinking about the
same objects. At one time, the minds of many will be tinged with
unbelief; at another, spiritualism will have its votaries; and again,
genuine, earnest searching for the truth will be apparent. He, who so
thoroughly knows the heart that he can detect the signs of these
changes, has the advantage possessed by a general who is acquainted with
all the plans of his antagonist. A close observer once said that a
certain minister would never be a revivalist, because he did not seem to
understand the movements of the Spirit. There was truth in his judgment,
although the deficiency was rather in understanding human nature. That
preacher who can look over his congregation as he speaks, and discern
something of the state of their hearts, can strike directly to the mark,
while the strength of another might be wasted.
A general knowledge of the motives by which men are governed will also
be of service. We must employ proper arguments when we seek to influence
our hearers, for truth may be so presented as to repel rather than
attract. We should know how to appeal to self-interest, for most follow
what they believe to be its dictates. We should be able to excite their
love and sympathy; in short, we ought to ascertain what motive is
powerful enough to move them, and employ it. This quick and accurate
knowledge of the heart is especially valuable to the man who preaches
without notes. Looking into the eyes of the congregation, he will see
their passing thoughts and emotions often indicated with great
precision. He will thus know when it is best to dwell on any particular
argument, and can press it home, or leave it, before the audience is
wearied. He will, all the time, have the advantage of seeing his way
distinctly, instead of stumbling along like a blind man who is conscious
of no obstacle until brought into contact with it. To reap this profit,
he must be able to read the expressions and changes that the heart
throws over the countenance—visible signs of its own state.
The proper way to obtain a practical knowledge of men is to mingle with
and study them. A preacher has great opportunities for this. He need not
fear to lower his dignity or impair his influence by a free and easy
intercourse with all classes. The people have acute perceptions, and
will give him credit for all that is good in him; and he has no right to
demand more. Indeed, if he have not native goodness and intelligence
enough to retain the confidence of his people in the closest social
intercourse, the sooner he relinquishes his office the better for all
concerned. It is no excuse to say that he cannot spare time from his
studies; for no labor will more surely bring a return of added power and
eloquence than the study of his flock around their own hearths. The best
books are only transcripts of the human heart, and here he can study the
original in all its freshness.
But merely to mingle with the people will not fully cultivate this
critical knowledge of character, unless it is made a particular study. A
good way of doing this is to write down our first thoughts and
impressions of persons we come in contact with, and test our correctness
by subsequent experience. We thus discover the source of our errors, and
avoid them in future, and, at the same time, form a habit of observation
which, if continued for years, will increase the acuteness of our
perceptions until we are able to read men at the first glance.
But most valuable of all means for attaining this power, is a thorough,
practical acquaintance with Phrenology. Much ridicule has been thrown on
this science by traveling imposters, who have practiced
character-reading, together with witchcraft and fortune-telling—just as
astronomy and astrology were once joined. But such associations are not
more necessary than that sometimes supposed to exist between geology and
unbelief. Phrenology is a branch of the inductive sciences, established
and tested by observation and experiment. Its two cardinal principles
are: First, that the brain is the organ of mind; second, that different
mental functions are performed by different parts of the brain. The
latter is no more unreasonable than to suppose that the different bodily
actions, walking, lifting, eating, smelling, etc., are performed by
different parts of the body. The first proposition is admitted by all;
and if the second is allowed to be reasonable, it then becomes easy to
determine whether the correspondence of faculty and organ in any case is
sufficiently proved. The poets, Whittier and Bryant, Horace Greeley and
the eminent educator, Horace Mann, all professed to derive great
advantage from the study. Henry Ward Beecher, who stands among the first
of living orators, attributes all his power “in making sermons _fit_” to
the early and constant study of Phrenology. It is an instructive fact,
that although the different organs were discovered singly and at long
intervals, yet when the contributions of many laborers have been brought
together, the result is a most beautiful and perfect mental
philosophy—contrasting with the warring systems of metaphysics as the
clear sunlight does with clouds and night. We give it as a deliberate
opinion that it is better for the preacher to remain ignorant of any one
of the natural sciences or learned languages, than to neglect that study
which unfolds the laws of mind and teaches us to understand our fellow
men.
CHAPTER V.
CULTIVATION—IMAGINATION—LANGUAGE—GESTURE—CONFIDENCE.
The ability to convey our thoughts to others may be very greatly
increased by culture. The vastest accumulations of learning will not be
useful to the world unless there is an available channel by which they
may be transmitted. We will consider a few of the elements that make a
man ready in communicating his ideas.
Imagination is often thought to be unnecessary to the sacred orator; but
if he resign to the poet and novelist that faculty that deals with
beauty in all its forms, the lovers of beauty will be apt to desert the
churches and seek gratification where it can be found. Imagination, in
its legitimate sphere, is as necessary as the power of reasoning, or the
sentiment of devotion. It deals with truth as well as fiction, and gives
to its possessor the creative, life-breathing spirit of poetry. Listen
to the description of any piece of natural scenery by a person of
imagination and another destitute of it. They may describe with equal
truthfulness, and even allude to the same objects; but one will give a
dry catalogue of facts, on which the mind cannot fix without painful
effort, while the other gives a picture that fills us with delight. The
same difference is apparent in the commonest things. In relating a story
or enforcing an argument, the man who has this rare and wonderful power
will make his words glow with life, and arrest our attention.
It has been said of Henry Ward Beecher, who possesses so strong an
imagination, that the people would listen with wonder if he were only
describing the way a potato grew. This is literally true. He would see
in it a thousand beauties no one else had thought of, and paint the
picture with a force and accuracy that would command attention. His own
conceptions are exceedingly clear, and while his knowledge is great, his
imagination enables him to concentrate everything into a clear and vivid
description.
Even the Bible, which is the preacher’s great example, is pre-eminently
a book of imagination. Nowhere is there loftier or more beautiful
imagery employed, or truth wrought into more exquisite forms. A few
short and simple words paint pictures that the world looks upon with
astonishment from age to age. The first chapters of Genesis contain as
much poetry as Paradise Lost; in fact, it is the poetry of these
chapters interpreted by a mighty mind that illuminates the most sublime
imaginative poem in the language of man. Job and Isaiah are without
rivals in the mighty imagination that “bodies forth the forms of things
unknown.” Even the New Testament, which we usually consider as a plain
narrative, sparkles with true poetry. Where will we find a more graceful
thought than that of our Saviour’s: “Consider the lilies of the field,
how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; yet I say unto you,
that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” The
Book of Revelation is full of glorious and awful figures addressed to
the imagination.
With such sanctions, the preacher need not fear to employ all of this
faculty that God has given him. Many of his subjects are in the remote
past, and can only be brought near enough to the people to awaken their
interest by one who can view them as present. There is no possibility of
novelty in our themes. Times are altered since Paul was accused as a
setter-forth of strange doctrines. Men have listened to the same stories
all their lives. Yet if the preacher can make the sublime scenes of the
Bible live in his own mind, he can describe them with the vivacity of an
eye-witness. All have noticed the interest excited in the midst of a dry
sermon by a simple story. The reason is, that the preacher was, at
first, dealing with abstractions—mere words, and nothing more—but when
he came to the story his heart and imagination took hold on it. The same
interest may be excited in any part of a sermon if the speaker can but
throw his own soul into it, and see what he describes.
The account of the storming of Lookout Mountain, as given by Bishop
Simpson, was a fine illustration of this. The incident is perfectly
familiar, and in describing it he used simple words, without the false
brilliancy that sometimes passes for eloquence. There was no particular
charm in his manner, but his imagination grasped the magnificent
achievement, and it stood out in all its fullness before the eyes of the
audience. They saw the old flag disappear in the cloud, and the long
lines of blue wind up the mountain until they were hidden in the same
obscurity; heard the thunder that man’s artillery made boom out of the
bosom of the cloud; then saw the flag emerge from the mist and heard the
cheer of victory ringing down from the sky. The effect upon the audience
was overwhelming, and irrepressible tears streamed from the eyes of all.
Such glory may be thrown around the teaching of the Bible, and every
word be true; and the audience will enjoy it more than if they were
actually carried back to the olden time and witnessed its wondrous
scenes with their own eyes; for they will have—what so many feel the
want of when gazing on memorable scenes—some one to interpret their
feelings and give them living sympathy.
While illustrations and comparisons flow principally from the reasoning
faculties, they derive their beauty from imagination. Without its
influence they may explain and simplify, but have no power to interest
the hearer or elevate the tenor of the discourse. Beecher excels in this
as in so many other things, and while his similes may take hold of the
most common things, they are always highly imaginative and appropriate.
How may imagination be cultivated? It is said that “poets are born, not
made;” but the foundation of every other faculty is in nature, while all
are useless unless improved and applied. It, too, will increase in power
by use. Imagination is the faculty that forms complete images from the
detached materials furnished by the senses. It takes from all sources,
and mixes and mingles until a perfect picture is formed. Now, the proper
way of cultivating it is by forming just such pictures. Let the preacher
throw on the canvas of the mind every part of his sermon that is capable
of sensible representation. It is not enough to have all the facts, but
he must cast them into the very shape he wishes them to take. A great
part of every sermon may thus be made pictorial, and be far more easily
remembered, and more effectively delivered. Even in doctrinal sermons,
use may be made of this principle, by forming clear mental images of the
illustrations, which are mostly from material objects. When Henry Bascom
was asked how he succeeded in preaching so well, he said that it was by
painting everything vividly in his mind, and then speaking of it as he
saw it before him. He was a man of unbounded imagination, and perhaps
allowed it too much influence in his discourses; but his example is most
instructive to that large number who have not enough to prevent their
sermons from being dim and dry.
But the preacher must use this faculty with great care, for it is an
edged tool. He deals in sacred things, and while he may approach the
burning bush where the Lord is, he must go with naked feet and softest
tread. Above all, truth and propriety may never be violated. That
imaginative preacher who pictured to his hearers the bustle of a railway
station, the rush of the train, the crowding of friends around to
welcome the passengers, and conspicuous among them, the gray-haired
father of the prodigal son, hurrying with tottering steps to the edge of
the platform, and there grasping the returning penitent by the hand, may
have produced a vivid picture, but his sermon scarcely tended to
edification!
This faculty may also be cultivated by reading and pondering the works
of those who have it in a high degree of perfection. The time devoted to
the study of the great poets is not lost. They give richness and tone to
the speaker’s mind, introduce him into scenes of ideal beauty, and
furnish him with many a striking thought and glowing image to be woven
into his future discourses.
Many of the sciences give as full scope to imagination in its best
workings as the fields of poesy. Astronomy and geology stand pre-eminent
in this particular. Everything about them is great. They deal with
immense periods of time, immeasurable magnitudes and sublimest
histories. Hugh Miller’s “Vision of Creation” is as replete with
imagination as a play of Shakespeare, and his other works sparkle with
the same radiant spirit. Each science requires the formation of mental
images, and thus approaches the domain of poetry. The dryness of
mathematical and scientific study is a pure myth. A philosopher once
said that poetry and the higher branches of science depended on the same
powers of mind. He was right. The poet is a creator who forms new worlds
of his own, and “gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name.”
He pictures the idea that arises in his brain in all the vividness of
outward form. The man of science is required to do the same thing, with
the advantage, perhaps, of a few scattered hints. The geologist may have
a few broken bones, a withered leaf, and some fragments of rock, from
which to bring before him the true “forest primeval,” through which
roamed gigantic animals, and dragons more unsightly than ever figured in
Grecian mythology. The astronomer has the half dozen phenomena he can
observe with his telescope from which to conceive the physical
appearance of distant worlds. In every science the same need for
imagination in its high, truthful function exists, and the same
opportunity is afforded for its cultivation.
An eminent elocutionist once advised his class to employ all pauses in
mentally painting the idea conveyed in the coming sentence. By this
means, he said, the expression of the voice would be made deeper and
truer. If this is so important in reciting the words of others, how much
more should we observe it when improvising sentences as well as
modulations.
Our conceptions may remain vague and intangible while within the mind,
but they can only reach others by taking the definite form of language.
It by no means follows that a man who has important ideas and deep
emotions, will be able to communicate them; but if he have a moderate
endowment of language it may be so cultivated as to answer all his
requirements. We have no doubt that diligent and long-continued practice
in the methods indicated below will enable the vast majority of men to
express their thoughts with clearness and fluency.
There are certain laws in every language, made binding by custom, which
cannot be transgressed without exposing the transgressor to ridicule.
These constitute grammar, and must be thoroughly learned. If a man has
been under the influence of good models in speech from childhood,
correctness will be a matter almost of instinct; but the reverse of this
is usually the case.
At the present day, there is little difficulty in learning to write in
accordance with the rules of composition; and when the power has been
attained, we have a standard by which to judge our spoken words. But it
is not enough for the extempore speaker to be able, by long effort, to
reduce his sentences to correctness. That should be the first and
spontaneous form in which they present themselves. He has no time to
think of right or wrong constructions, and the only safe way is to make
the right so habitual that the wrong will not once be thought of. In
other words, we must not only be able to express ourselves correctly by
tongue and pen, but the very current of thought which is flowing
ceaselessly through our brain, and which is usually clothed in unspoken
words, must be in accordance with the laws of language. When we have
attained the power of precise and accurate thinking, we will have no
difficulty in avoiding the ridiculous blunders sometimes supposed to be
inseparable from extemporaneous speech.
Correct pronunciation is also of great importance. Usage has the same
authority here as in the collocation of words, and has assigned to each
one its proper sound, which no speaker can mistake without being exposed
to misconception and damaging criticism. A deficient knowledge of
pronunciation is apt to produce another and extremely hurtful effect.
The mental effort necessary to determine between two different sounds
that may be suggested, is liable to divert the mind from the subject it
is engaged upon, and thus occasion embarrassment and hesitation. That
accuracy in the use of words, which is the charm of spoken no less than
written composition, may also be impaired; for if two or more terms for
one object flash into the speaker’s mind, only one of which he is
confident of his ability to pronounce, he will be strongly tempted to
use that one, even if it be the least suitable. He ought to know how to
pronounce all common words, and be so familiar with the right sound and
accent, that no other will ever enter his mind. Then he will be able to
select the terms that convey his meaning most clearly and strongly.
One blunder in pronunciation should be particularly shunned by every
person of good taste. This is the omission of the sound of “r” in places
where it rightly belongs. It is strange that this shameful perversion of
language should be popular in certain circles. It is so easily observed
and corrected that the poor excuse of ignorance is scarcely admissible,
and in general it can be attributed only to silly affectation. This
sound is as musical as most others, and the attempt to improve the
melody of our speech by its omission is on a par with the efforts of our
great-grandmothers to improve their beauty by affixing patches to their
cheeks and noses.
Fluency and accuracy in the use of words are two qualities that have
often been confounded, but are really distinct. They are of equal
importance to the speaker, while the writer has most need of the latter.
All words have separate and well-defined meanings. They are not the
product of a day, but have been building up through long ages. By
strange turns, and with many a curious history, have they glided into
the significations they now bear; but each one has become imbedded in
the minds of the people as the representative of a certain idea. No two
words are precisely alike. They are delicate paints that, to the
untutored eye, may seem of one color, but each of which has its own
place in the picture created by the hand of genius, that can be supplied
by no other. Many ways have been suggested to learn these fine shades of
meaning. It is often supposed that the study of the so-called learned
languages—Latin and Greek—is the best and almost only method. This will
certainly give a large amount of information concerning the origin and
formation of words; but it cannot fix their signification at the present
day, for radical changes of meaning often take place. A linguist can use
his knowledge to great advantage; but the man who knows no language but
his own need not consider himself as debarred from the very highest
place as a master of words. He can obtain the same knowledge in a more
condensed and accessible form by the study of a good etymological
dictionary. In general reading, let him mark every word he does not
perfectly understand, and referring to the dictionary, find what it came
from, the meaning of its roots, and its varied significations at the
present day. This will make the word so familiar, that, when he meets it
again, it will seem like an old acquaintance, and he will notice if the
author uses it correctly. He may not be able thus to study every word in
the language, but will be led to think of the meaning of each one he
sees; and from this silent practice will learn the beauty and power of
the English tongue as perfectly as if he were master of the languages of
Greece and Rome. If this habit is long-continued, it will teach him to
use words truly in his very thoughts, and then he cannot mistake even in
the hurry of speech.
Translating from any language, ancient or modern, will have just the
same tendency to teach accurate expression as careful original
composition. In either case, improvement comes from the search for words
that will exactly convey certain ideas, and it matters not what the
source of these latter may be. The use of a good manual of synonyms—a
thesaurus, or storehouse of words—may be of service, by showing all
terms that relate to any object in one view, and allowing us to choose
the most suitable.
But none of these methods will very greatly increase our fluency. There
is a difference between merely knowing a term and that easy use long
practice alone can give. Elihu Burritt, with his fifty languages, has
often been surpassed in fluency, force and variety of expression by an
unlettered rustic, because the few words the latter knew were always
ready. This readiness will always increase by use. The blacksmith’s arm,
hardening by the exertion it puts forth, is a trite illustration of the
effect of exercise; and the man who is always applying to ideas and
things the verbal signs by which they are known, will increase the
facility with which he can call them to mind. If he does not employ them
properly, his manner will not improve, and with all his fluency he will
speak incorrectly. But if he speak in accordance with established usage,
his ability will daily increase.
Conversation is an excellent means for this kind of cultivation. We do
not mean a running fire of question and answer, glancing so rapidly back
and forth as to give no time for premeditating or explaining anything,
but real, rational talk—an exchange of ideas, so clearly expressed as to
make them intelligible. The man who deals much in this kind of
conversation can scarcely fail to become a master of the art of
communicating his thoughts in appropriate language. Talk, express your
ideas when you can with propriety, or when you have an idea to express.
Do it in the best way possible. If hard at first, it will become easier,
and thus you will learn eloquence in the best and most pleasing school.
For the common conversational style—that in which man deals with his
fellowman—is the germ of true oratory. It may be amplified and
systematized; but talking bears to eloquence the same relation the soil
does to the tree that springs from its bosom.
But the best thoughts of men are seldom found floating on the sea of
common talk. If we wish to drink the deepest inspiration, our minds must
come often in loving contact with the words of the great and mighty of
every age. There we will find “thought knit close to thought;” and, what
is more to the present purpose, words, in their best acceptance, so
applied as to breathe and live. We can read these passages until their
spirit sinks into our hearts, and their melody rings in our ears like a
song of bliss. If we commit them to memory, it will be a profitable
employment. The words of which they are composed, with the meanings they
bear in their several places, will thus be fixed in our minds, and ready
to drop on our tongues when they are needed. This conning of passages is
not recommended for the purpose of quotation, though they may often be
thus used to good advantage; but to print the individual words of which
they are composed more deeply on the memory.
This may be effected also by committing selections from our own
compositions. What is thus used should be polished, and yet preserve, as
far as possible, the natural form of expression. When this is done to a
moderate extent, it has a tendency to elevate the character of our
extemporaneous efforts by erecting a standard that is our own, and
therefore suited to our tastes and capacities, at the very highest point
we can reach. But if this is made habitual, it will interfere with the
power of spontaneous production, and thus contribute to destroy the
faculty it was designed to cultivate. Ministers who write and commit all
their sermons, are accustomed to read from a mental copy of their
manuscript; and the force of habit binds them more and more closely to
it until they cannot speak otherwise. When such persons are unexpectedly
called upon to make a speech, they do it, not in the simple, easy
language that becomes such an occasion, but by throwing together bits of
previously-committed addresses. They have made what might be an agent of
improvement, the means of so stereotyping their minds that they can only
move in one channel unless time is given them to dig out another.
There is no means of cultivating language that surpasses extempore
speech itself. The only difficulty is to find occasion to speak often
enough. The pioneer Methodist itinerants, who had to preach every day in
the week, enjoyed this mode of cultivation to its full extent; and
whatever may be thought of their other merits, their fluency of speech
is beyond question. But long intervals of preparation bring
counterbalancing advantages at the present time. Let these be improved
in the way indicated hereafter, and the preacher will come to the sacred
desk with a power increased by each effort.
When a thought is clearly understood, it will fall into words as
naturally as a summer cloud, riven by lightning, dissolves into rain. So
easy is it to express an idea, or series of ideas, that have been
completely mastered, that a successful minister once said: “It is a
preacher’s own fault if he ever fails in a sermon. Let him prepare as he
ought, and there is no danger.” The assertion was too sweeping, for
there are sometimes external causes that will prevent full success. Yet
there is no doubt that the continuance of this thorough preparation, in
connection with frequent speaking, will give very great ease of
expression. “The blind, but eloquent” Milburn, says, that he gave four
years of his life—the time spent as chaplain at Washington—to acquire
the power of speaking correctly and easily without the previous use of
the pen, and considered the time exceedingly well spent. His manner is
that most difficult to acquire—the diffuse, sparkling, rhetorical style
so much prized by those who prefer flower to fruit. An earnest, nervous,
and yet elegant style can be acquired by most persons in much less time.
There is another thought that those who complain of deficient language
would do well to ponder. No one can use words well on any subject of
which he is ignorant. The most fluent man, who knows nothing of
astronomy, would find himself at great loss for words if he attempted to
explain the phenomena of the heavenly bodies. Even if he were shown an
orrery, and thus led to comprehend their motions, he would still be
ignorant of the proper terms by which such knowledge is conveyed. If he
attempted to explain what he understood so imperfectly, he would be apt
to hesitate, and finally use words and names incorrectly. As our ideas
become clear and defined, there is an intense hungering for the terms by
which they are expressed; and this hunger will lead to its own supply.
Let us increase our fluency by extending the bounds of our knowledge;
but ask of language nothing more than belongs to its true function—to
furnish means of expression for the ideas we already possess.
The voice, assisted by gesture, forms the immediate link between the
speaker and his audience. Its qualities are of great importance,
although, in some quarters, over-estimated. A good voice, well managed,
gives powerful and vivid expression to thought, but cannot answer as a
substitute for it. Neither is it indispensable. We have known many and
great instances of success against much vocal disadvantage; but this
only proves that its absence may be compensated by other excellencies.
We can never be indifferent to the charm of a well-modulated voice,
bending to every emotion, and responsive to the finest shades of
feeling. It makes ordinary talk so smooth and pleasant as to be
generally acceptable, but can never raise it to greatness. The instances
that are given to prove this, do not seem capable of bearing such an
interpretation. Whitefield is sometimes spoken of as an instance of what
can be accomplished by masterly elocution; but he was a man of fervent,
if not profound thought. His emotion was overpowering, and his voice,
with all its melody, was only an instrument for its expression. Let a
bad or indifferent man have Whitefield’s voice and manner in
completeness, and he would be but a disgusting declaimer. It is soul
that must speak through the voice to other souls, and only thus can the
mighty effects of eloquence be produced.
We do not think there is much virtue in the merely mechanical training
of the voice. To teach the pupil just what note on the scale he must
strike to express a particular emotion, how much of an inflection must
be used to indicate sudden joy or sorrow, and how many notes down the
scale mark a complete suspension of sense, is absurd. Speech can never
be set to music.
But from this let it not be inferred that the cultivation of the voice
is useless. It is the instrument for the expression of thought, and the
more perfect it can be made the better it is fitted for its high office.
It would be well for the preacher to spend some time every day for years
in vocal training, for there is nothing more susceptible of improvement
than the voice. The passion excited during animated speech will demand
almost every note and key within its compass, and unless it has been
previously trained on these, it may fail. To prepare in this way by
exploring the range of the voice, and testing all its capabilities, has
in it nothing mechanical or slavish. It is only like putting a musical
instrument in tune before beginning to play.
Nothing contributes so much to give ability to manage the voice as the
separation of words into the simple elements of sound, and continued
practice in the enunciation of these. They can be best learned from the
short-hand system of tachygraphy or phonography, or from the phonetic
print. In these we find sound resolved into its elements, which are but
few in number, and on which we can practice until every difficulty in
enunciation is overcome. If there is a fault in our articulation, we
will find just where it is, and can bring all our practice directly to
its remedy. When we are able to give clearly each one of the separate
sounds of the language—not many over forty in number—we can easily
follow them into all their combinations, and are thus master of the
first great excellency in speaking—good articulation. Nor is this all.
We can then practice on the same elements, at different degrees of
elevation on the musical scale, until we can strike every one in full
round distinctness at each point, from the shrillest note used in speech
to the deepest bass. Then the whole field of oratory is open before us.
But there is still another advantage: if our strength of voice be not so
great as we would wish, we can take the same sounds, and by practicing
upon them with a gradually-increasing effort, attain all the force our
organs are capable of, and even increase their power to a degree that
would be incredible, were it not so often proved by actual experiment.
When engaged in these practices, we will notice a distinction between
the vowel sounds—that while some of them may be prolonged indefinitely,
others are made at a single impulse. Following out these ideas, we will
increase the rapidity of the second until they can be struck with all
the suddenness of the report of a pistol, and one after another so
rapidly that the ear can scarcely catch the distinction between them.
This will enable us to avoid drawling, and help us to speak with
rapidity when we desire it, without falling into indistinctness. We next
learn to prolong the other vowels, and thus to make them carry the
sounds of words to the greatest distance. The full, deliberate
enunciation of a word is audible much further than the most violent
shout. The passenger calling to the ferryman across the river does not
say OVER in one single violent impulse, or, if he does, he is not heard,
but o-o-ver; and even if his tone is gentle, the hills ring again, and
the ferryman is aroused. Let this principle be brought into use in
public speaking, and soon no hall will be too large for the compass of
the voice.
The different extensions of sounds, as well as their pitch on the
musical scale, and variations of force in enunciation, constitute the
perspective of the art of oratory, and give it an agreeable variety,
like the mingling of light and shade in a well-executed picture. A dull,
dead uniformity, in which each word is uttered on the same key, with the
same degree of force, and each sound enunciated with the same rapidity,
would be utterly unbearable; while a perpetual variety, reflecting in
each rise and fall, each storm and calm of sound, the living thought
within, is the perfection toward which we must strive.
Little can be done in training the voice beyond these elementary
exercises. The expression in the moment of speech may safely be left to
the impulse of nature. Supply the capability by previous discipline,
then leave passion to clothe itself in the most natural forms. We
believe there is such a connection between the emotions of the mind and
the different tones of voice, that emphasis, inflection and intonation
need not be taught. They will well up from the heart itself. Reading may
require more teaching, for its very nature is artificial; and it behoves
those who read their sermons to study hard to supply the want of emotion
and naturalness by the resources of elocution. But the only effect of
rules upon the speaker, so far as he heeds them at all, is to make him a
cold and lifeless machine. The child that is burnt needs no instruction
to find the right tone to express its pain, so that every one who hears
it knows that it is suffering. It strikes the key-note of joy and every
other emotion with equal certainty. Let nature but have her way,
untrammeled by art, and every feeling that arises will mold the voice to
its will, and every heart will recognize and respond to the sound. We
may in this way miss the so-called “brilliancy” of theatric clap-trap,
but our voices will have that “touch of nature that makes the whole
world kin.”
Something may be done by observing the world closely and thus becoming
more deeply permeated by that atmosphere of sympathy and passion that
wraps all men into one family, and forms a medium of communication
deeper and more wide-spread than any language of earth. It is also
profitable to listen to the great orators who have mastered the
mysteries of speech, not for the purpose of imitating them, but that we
may appreciate better what true excellence is. Yet it is hurtful to
confine our attention too long to one model, for excellence is
many-sided, and if we view only one of its phases, we are apt to fall
into slavish imitation—the greatest of all vices. We avoid this by
looking upon many examples, and making use of them only to elevate our
own ideal. Then, without a conscious effort to reproduce anything we
have heard, we will be urged to greater exertions, and the whole level
of our attainments raised.
There are abundant faults to mar the freedom of nature; and the speaker
who would be truly natural must watch vigilantly for them, and, when
found, exterminate them without mercy. The sing-song tone, the scream,
the lisp, the guttural and tremulous tones, must be weeded out as they
come to the surface; and if the preacher’s own egotism is too great to
see them, or his taste not pure enough, some friend ought to point them
out for him. At the bar, or in political life, the keen shaft of
ridicule destroys such things in those who are not incorrigible; but in
the pulpit they are too often suffered to run riot because the sacred
nature of its themes prohibits ridicule, and causes every one to endure
in silence.
But there is one fault that over-tops all others, and constitutes a
crying sin and an abomination before the Lord. Would that every hearer
who suffers by it had the courage to go to his minister and tell him of
the torture he inflicts. He could not long endure such an overwhelming
fire brought to bear on him. It is what is sometimes designated as the
“solemn or holy tone.” It prevails to an alarming extent. Men who, out
of the pulpit, are varied and lively in their conversation, no sooner
enter it than it seems as if some evil spirit had taken possession of
them and enthroned itself in their voice, which at once sinks into a
measured, or rather measureless drawl, with each word sloping down a
precipice of falling inflections. It conceals ideas as perfectly as ever
Talleyrand did; for surely no idea, even of living light, could
penetrate through such a veil. Men who thus neutralize their talents and
contribute to render religion distasteful, will surely have to answer
for it at the great day of account. Let our style in the pulpit be
simple, earnest and manly. Let each emotion clothe itself in its own
language and tones, and then we will be above all rules, and all censure
too, for we will be under the infallible guidance of nature and the
Spirit of God.
Should we use a conversational tone in speaking? This question has often
been discussed, and although there is a great difference of opinion, yet
it seems to admit of satisfactory answer. The language of conversation
is the language of nature, and therefore it should be the basis of
speech. The same intonations that are used in it should be employed in
every branch of oratory. But the manner of conversation is not always
the same. The man who talks with a friend across a river would not use
the same tones as if he held that friend by the hand. And if a man is
speaking to a number at once, the very need of being heard will cause
him to speak somewhat louder than in addressing a single person. With
this exception, it might be safely laid down as a rule that a speech
should be commenced in the same manner as we would speak to an
individual. But should it be continued in that way? The orotund tone is
calculated to make a deeper impression than a higher key, or a less
degree of force. But there need be no solicitude about its employment.
Begin as a man who is talking to his friends upon an interesting subject
would do, and then, as the interest deepens, throw away all restraint of
voice. Let it follow passion, and it will naturally fall into the way
that will best express that passion. It will deepen into the
thunder-roar when that is needed, and will become soft and pathetic at
the right time.
But beware of thinking that you must be loud, in order to be impressive.
Nothing is more disgusting than that interminable roar, beginning with a
shout and continuing all through the sermon. It is worse than monotony
itself. The very loudness of voice that, applied at the right place,
would be overpowering, loses all power, and becomes as wearisome as the
ceaseless lashing of ocean waves to the storm-tost mariner. Strive to
have something to say, keep the fires of passion burning in your own
soul, and the voice, which has previously been diligently cultivated,
will not fail in what should be its only office—the bringing of your
thoughts into contact with the souls of others.
Books on oratory properly devote much space to the consideration of
gesture, for the eye needs to be addressed and pleased as well as the
ear. But we doubt whether the marking out of gestures to be imitated is
calculated to do much good. The principal use of training seems to be,
first, to overcome the backwardness that might freeze both speaker and
congregation; and second, to discard awkward and repulsive movements.
The first can be accomplished by a firm resolution, and is worthy of it.
We have all seen most eloquent men who did not move at all, or who moved
very slightly in the course of their address, but never without feeling
that the want of gesticulation detracted just so much from their power.
It is unnatural to speak standing still, and none but a lazy, sick, or
bashful man will do it. Yet many who do not hesitate to make their
voices reverberate to the roof, will fear to move even a finger. Let
this timidity be thrown off. Even an ungraceful gesture is better than
none at all.
But after the first fear has been overcome, and the speaker has learned
to use his hands, he next needs to guard against bad habits. If anything
is truly natural, it will be beautiful; but we are so much corrupted by
early example that it is hard to find what nature is. There is hardly a
public speaker who does not, at some time, fall into habits that are
unsightly or ridiculous. The difference in this respect is, that some
retain all the faults they once get, hanging and accumulating around
them; while others, from the warning of friends or their own
observation, discover their errors, and cast them off.
A good method of testing our own manner, from which we should not be
deterred by prejudice, is by speaking before a mirror. There is reason
for the common ridicule thrown upon this practice, if we recite our
sermons for the purpose of marking the proper points of gesture, and of
noting where to start, and frown, and wave the arm, so as to make the
whole mere acting. But what we advise is to speak before the glass in as
earnest and impassioned a manner as we can command, not for practice on
the subjects we are to discuss, but that we may “see ourselves as others
see us.” In ordinary speaking we can hear our own voice, and thus become
sensible of any audible errors that we may fall into; but we need the
glass to show us how we look, and to make us see any improper movement
that we may have unconsciously contracted. We do not advise the recital
of a sermon before the glass. There is something cold and irreverent in
the very idea. But the same objection does not apply to ordinary
declamation.
By these two processes—pressing out into action under the impulse of
deep feeling, as strongly and freely as possible, and by lopping off
everything that is not graceful and effective, we will soon attain a
good style of gesture. All mechanical imitation, all observance of
artificial rules, and especially all attempts to make the gesture
descriptive, such as pointing toward the object alluded to, placing the
hand on the heart to express emotion, etc., will do more harm than good.
The best gesticulation is entirely unconscious.
Frequently the speed or slowness of the gesture reveals more emotion
than its direction or form. The stroke, when it falls upon a particular
word, aids to make it emphatic, even when there is no observable
connection between the kind of movement made and the sentiment uttered.
Let the mind, intent on its subject, take full possession of the whole
body, as a medium of expression, and every action will correspond with
tone and word, and the soul of the hearer be reached alike through eye
and ear.
We have already spoken of boldness as an indispensable requisite for an
extempore speaker. But more is needed than the courage that leads us to
encounter the perils of speech. Some speakers master their fears
sufficiently to begin, yet continue to experience a nervous dread which
prevents the free use of their faculties. This clinging timidity may
hang around an orator, and impede his flights of eloquence as
effectually as an iron fetter would an eagle on the wing. The speaker
must confide in his own powers, and be willing to trust to their
guidance.
It is not necessary that he should have this confidence previous to
speaking, for it is then very difficult to exercise it, and if
possessed, it may assume the appearance of egotism and boastfulness.
Many a man begins to speak while trembling in every limb, but soon
becomes inspired with his theme and forgets all anxiety. But if his fear
be greater than this, and keep him in perpetual terror, it will destroy
liberty and eloquence. A man under such an influence loses his
self-possession, becomes confused, all interest evaporates from his most
carefully-prepared thoughts, and he finally sits down, convinced that
his effort was a failure, while, perhaps, he had in his brain the
necessary power and material to sway the assembly at will. Such a one
must learn to fear less, or seek a higher support under his trials.
There is no remedy more effectual than to do all our work under the
immediate pressure of duty. If we speak for self-glory, the frowns or
approval of the audience become a matter of vast importance to us, and
if we fail, we are deeply mortified and bewail our foolishness in
exposing ourselves to such risks. On the contrary, if we speak from a
sense of duty, if we hear the cry, “woe is me if I preach not the
Gospel,” sounding in our ears, it is no longer a matter of choice, and
we go forward, even trembling, to obey the imperative command. Our mind
is fixed on our theme, and the applause of the multitude becomes of
small moment to us except as it is the echo of God’s approval. We feel
that we are his workmen, and believe that he will sustain us. Men have
thus been forward in the Christian ministry who would otherwise never
have faced the dangers and exposures of public speaking. They were
driven to it, and therefore threw themselves bravely into it, and often
attained the highest eminence.
A want of proper confidence is one great reason why so many with
superior talents for off-hand speaking seek refuge in their notes. They
try, and fail. Instead of copying the school-boy motto “try, try again,”
and thus reaping the fruition of their hopes, they give up—conclude that
they have no talents for the work, and sink to mediocrity and tameness,
when they might have been brilliant in the field of true oratory.
The possession of confidence while speaking secures respect and
deference. The congregation can pardon timidity at the beginning, for
then their minds are fixed on the speaker, and his shrinking seems to be
but a graceful exhibition of modesty and good sense. But after he has
once begun, their minds are on the subject, and they associate him with
it. If he is dignified, respectful and confident, they listen
attentively, and feel the weight of his words. This is far different
from bluster and bravado, which always injure the cause they advocate,
and produce a feeling of disgust toward the offender. The first seems to
arise from a sense of the dignity of the subject; the second from an
opinion of personal importance—an opinion no speaker has a right to
entertain when before an audience, for, in the very act of speaking to
them, he constitutes them his judges. He may have confidence in his own
power to present the subject faithfully, and he will speak with only the
more force and certainty if he is well assured of that, but he must not
let it be seen that he is thinking of himself, or trying to exhibit his
own genius.
A speaker needs confidence that he may avail himself of the suggestions
of the moment. Some of the best thoughts he will ever have, will be out
of the line of his preparation, and will occur at a moment when there is
no time for him to weigh them. He must reject them immediately or begin
to follow, not knowing whither they lead, and this not in thought alone,
but in audible words, with the risk that they may bring him into some
ridiculous absurdity. He cannot even stop to glance ahead, for the least
hesitation will break the spell he may have woven around his hearers,
while if he rejects the self-offered idea, he may lose a genuine
inspiration. A quick searching glance, that will allow no time for his
own feelings or those of his hearers to cool, is all that he can give,
and it is necessary in that time to decide whether to reject the
thought, or follow it with the same assurance as if the end were clearly
in view. It requires some boldness to do this, and yet every speaker
knows that his very highest efforts—thoughts that have moved his hearers
like leaves before the wind—have been of this character.
It also requires some confidence to begin a sentence, even when the idea
is plain, without knowing how it is to be framed or where it will end.
This difficulty is experienced very often in speech even by those who
are most fluent. A man may learn to cast sentences very rapidly, yet it
will take some time for them to pass through his mind, and when he has
finished one, the next idea may not have fully condensed itself into
words. To begin, then, with this uncertainty and go on without letting
the people see any hesitation, demands a good deal of confidence in
one’s power of commanding words and forming sentences. Yet a bold and
confident speaker feels no uneasiness on such occasions. Sometimes he
will prolong a pause while he is thinking of the word he wants, and
hazardous as this appears, it is really safe, for the mind is so active
when in the complete possession of its powers that, if necessary, as it
seldom is, something extraneous can easily be thrown in, that will fill
up the time until the right term and the right construction are found.
This necessary confidence can be cultivated by striving to exercise it,
and by assuming its appearance where the reality is not. Let a person
make up his mind that he will become an extempore speaker, and patiently
endure all failures and mistakes that follow, and he will thus avoid the
wavering and shrinking, and questioning in his own mind that otherwise
distress him and paralyze his powers. If he fail, he will be stimulated
to a stronger and more protracted effort. If he succeed, that will be an
argument upon which to base future confidence, and thus, whatever is the
result, he is forwarded on his course.
And in regard to the difficulty of sentence-casting, he will make his
way through so many perplexities of that kind, that the only danger will
be that of becoming careless, and constructing too many sentences
without unity or polish. He will acquire by long experience so much
knowledge of the working of his own thoughts, as to be able to tell at a
glance what he ought to reject, and what accept, of the unbidden ideas
that present themselves. He will be ready to seize every new thought,
even if it be outside of his preparation, and, if worthy, give it
instant expression; and if not, dismiss it at once and continue
unchecked along his intended route.
There is only one direction that we can give for the acquisition of the
confidence that is respectful and self-assured, and yet not forward nor
obtrusive. Be fully persuaded as to what is best for you, and make up
your mind to take the risks as well as the advantages of extempore
speaking. Then persevere until all obstacles are overcome.
We have thus glanced at a few of the more important acquired qualities
necessary for public speaking. These do not cover the whole field, for
to speak aright requires all the faculties of the mind in the highest
state of cultivation. There is no mental power that may not contribute
to the orator’s success. The whole limits of possible education are
comprised in two great branches: the one relating to the reception, and
the other to the communication of knowledge. The perfect combination of
these is the ideal of excellence—an ideal so high that it can only be
aspired to. All knowledge is of value to the orator. He may not have
occasion to use it directly in his speeches, but it will always be at
hand to select from, and give his views additional breadth and scope. If
his materials are few he must take, not what is best, but what he has.
If a wide extent of knowledge is open before him, the chances are that
he will find exactly what is needed for his purpose.
The improvement of the power to communicate knowledge is, if possible,
still more important. A great part of the value even of a diamond
depends upon its setting and polish, and the richest and most glowing
thoughts may fail to reach the heart or charm the intellect, unless they
are cast into the proper form, and given external beauty.
Let the man, then, who would speak well not fear to know too much. He
cannot be great at once. He must build for future years. If he wish a
sudden and local celebrity that will never increase, but molder away,
even in his own lifetime, he could, perhaps, attain it in another way.
He might learn a few of the externals of elocution, and then, with great
care, or by the free use of the material of others, prepare some
finely-worded discourses, and read or recite them as often as he can
find a new audience. It is true that by this means his success will
probably not be as great as he would wish, but he can be sure that what
he achieves will be sufficiently evanescent. He will not grow up to the
measure of greatness, but become daily more dwarfed and stereotyped in
intellect. But on the other hand, let him “intermeddle with all
knowledge,” and make his means of communicating what he thus gathers as
perfect as possible, and then talk to the people out of the fullness of
his treasures, and if no sudden and empty acclaim should greet him, he
will be weighty and influential from the first, and each year that
passes will bring him added power. The aim of the sacred orator should
be the full and harmonious development of all the faculties that God has
given him, and their consecration to his great work.
PART II.
A SERMON.
CHAPTER I.
THE FOUNDATION—SUBJECT—OBJECT—TEXT.
We have thus far discussed the subject of preliminary training, and have
endeavored to show what natural qualities the preacher must possess, and
how these can be improved by diligent cultivation. The importance of a
wide scope of knowledge, and especially of that which bears upon
oratory; of understanding and having some command of the powers of
language; of having a personal experience of Christ’s pardoning love,
and a heart filled with desire for the salvation of our fellow men; of
believing that God has called us to the work of the ministry; has
already been pointed out. When a man finds himself in possession of
these, and is still a diligent student, growing daily in grace, he is
prepared to preach the Gospel in “demonstration of the spirit and of
power.” He is then ready to consider the methods by which all his gifts
and acquirements may be made available, and wielded with mightiest
effect in the service of his Master.
Some of the directions given in this and succeeding chapters are of
universal application, while others are to be regarded only as
suggestions, to be modified and changed according to individual taste,
or particular circumstances.
A plan is necessary to every sermon. A rude mass of brick, lumber,
mortar and iron, thrown together as the materials chance to be
furnished, does not constitute a house, and is worthless until each is
built into its appropriate place, in obedience to some intelligent
design. A sermon must be constructed in a similar manner. It may contain
much that is good, or useful, or striking, and be replete with sparkling
imagery, and full of ideas that will command the attention of the
audience, and yet completely fail. The only safe method is to have a
well-defined plan marked out from beginning to end, and to work
according to it.
It is always better to have this plan previously constructed. Sometimes
when we speak on a subject we have often thought over, its whole outline
will flash upon us in a moment, and we will speak as well as if we had
employed months in preparation. But such cases are rare exceptions. The
man who attempts, on the spur of the moment, to arrange his facts, draw
his inferences, and enforce his opinions, will find the task very
difficult, even if his memory promptly furnishes all the necessary
materials.
Every discourse, of whatever character, should have a subject and an
object. A sermon requires a text also, and these three constitute the
foundation upon which it is built. We will consider them separately.
A good plan cannot be constructed without an object in view. Why is it
that at a particular time a congregation assembles, and sits silent
while a man addresses them? What is his motive in standing up before
them and asking their attention? Many of the people may have been drawn
together by the lightest influences, but the minister, at least, should
be actuated by a noble purpose. If he has a clear aim before him, it
will tend powerfully to give unity and consistency to his discourse, and
prevent him from falling into endless digressions. It will bind all
detached parts together, and infuse a common life through the whole
mass. We cannot be too careful in the selection of such a ruling object,
for it will affect the whole superstructure.
Our purposes should not be too general. It is not enough that we should
wish to do good. Probably no minister ever preaches without that general
desire. But the important question is, “What special good do I hope to
accomplish by this sermon?” When he has decided this, he will then be
prepared to adapt his means to the end proposed, and the whole discourse
will acquire a definiteness and precision that would never otherwise
have belonged to it. The more we sub-divide our objects, the more will
this precision be increased, although there is a limit beyond which it
would be at the expense of other qualities. If we desire the salvation
of souls, it is well, and most powerful sermons have been preached with
that object in view. But if we narrow our immediate aim, and keep in
view only one of the steps by which the soul advances to God, it will
give our discourse a keener edge, and we can plead with those who have
not yet taken that step with more prospect of immediate success, than if
we at once placed the whole journey before them. For example, many
sermons may be preached with “repentance” as the central object, and
this duty enforced by various motives and innumerable arguments. We may
show that it is a duty, that man is lost without it, that Jesus calls
him to it, that God assists, that salvation follows it, etc.
Our objects usually have reference to the action of those who hear us,
and the more fully that action is understood, and the more earnest our
desire to produce it, the greater our persuasive power will be. If we do
not exactly know what we wish to accomplish, there is very little
probability that our audience will interpret our thoughts for us. We
may, it is true, labor to convince the judgment of our hearers, and make
them understand truth more clearly than before, but this is usually
because of the influence thus exerted on their actions.
The objects that should govern our sermons are comparatively few, and
ought to be selected with great care. Much of our success depends on
having the right one of these before us at the right time; for if we aim
at that which is unattainable, we lose our effort. If we preach
sanctification to a congregation of unawakened sinners, no power of
treatment can redeem the sermon from the cardinal defect of
inappropriateness. If we preach against errors which no one of our
hearers entertains, our logic is lost, even if the very errors we battle
against are not suggested. Let us carefully note the state of our
audience, and select for our object that which ought to be accomplished.
There is a difference between the subject of a discourse and its object;
the latter is the motive that impels us to speak, while the former is
what we speak about. It is not uncommon for ministers to have a subject
without any very distinct object. Their engagements require them to
speak, and a subject is a necessity. That which can be treated most
easily is taken, and all the ideas they possess, or can collect about
it, are given forth, and the matter left. Until such persons grow in
earnest, and really desire to accomplish something, they cannot advance
the cause of God.
The object of a sermon is the soul, while the subject is only the body;
or, we may say, the one is the end, and the other the means by which it
is accomplished. After the object is fixed the subject can be chosen to
much better advantage; for instance, if it be our object to lead the
penitent to the Cross, we may select any of the themes connected with
the crucifixion and dying love of Christ; we may show the sinner his
inability to fulfill the requirements of the law, and that he needs an
atoning sacrifice to save him from its penalty; we may show that the
salvation purchased is full and free. Many other branches of the same
great topic will be found suitable for the purpose in view.
This order of selection may sometimes be reversed to good advantage.
When a minister is stationed with a certain congregation, there are many
objects he wishes to accomplish, and often no strong reason for
preferring one in the order of time to another. It will then be well for
him to take that subject which may impress him, and bend his mind toward
an object he can enforce most powerfully through it.
On other occasions there is a particular end to be attained, which is
for the time all-important, and which thus furnishes the proper object.
Nothing then remains but for the preacher to choose a subject through
which he can work to the best advantage.
This is one great advantage the Methodists have in protracted meetings.
An object is always in view, and the congregation expect it to be
pressed home with power. No plea of general instruction will then save a
sermon from being thought worthless, if it does not produce an immediate
result. And even the much calumniated “mourners’ bench” contributes most
powerfully to the same result. There is something proposed which the
congregation can see, and through it judge of the preacher’s success or
failure. An outward act is urged upon the unbelieving portion of the
audience, by which they signify that they yield to the power of the
Gospel; and the very fact of having that before him as an immediate,
though not an ultimate aim, will stimulate the preacher’s zeal, and
cause him to put forth every possible exertion.
After all, the order in which subject and object are selected is not
very material. It is enough that the preacher has a subject that he
understands, and an object that warms his heart and enlists all his
powers. Then he can preach, not as if dealing with abstractions, but as
one who has a living mission to perform.
Every subject we treat should be complete in itself, and rounded off
from everything else. Its boundaries should be run with such precision
as not to include anything but what properly belongs to it. It is a
common but grievous fault to have the same cast of ideas flowing round
every text that may be preached from. There are few things in the
universe that have not some relation to everything else, and if our
topics are not very strictly bounded, we will fall into the vice of
perpetual repetition. Thus, in a book of sermon sketches we have
examined, nearly every one begins by proving that man is a fallen
creature, and needs the helps or is liable to the ills mentioned
afterward. No other thought is introduced until that primal point is
settled. This doctrine is of great importance, and does affect all man’s
relations, but we can sometimes take it for granted, without endangering
the edifice we build upon it, and occasional silence will be far more
impressive than that continual iteration, which may even induce a doubt
of what seems to need so much proof.
Ministers sometime acquire such a stereotyped form of thought and
expression that what they say in one sermon will be sure to recur,
perhaps in a modified form, in all others. This kind of preaching is
intolerable. There is an end to the patience of man. He tires of the
same old ideas, and wishes when a text is taken that it may bring with
it a new sermon. The remedy against this evil is to give each sermon its
own territory, and then guard rigidly against trespass. It is not a
sufficient excuse for the minister who preaches continually in one
place, that what he says has a natural connection with the subject in
hand, but it must have a closer connection with it, than with any other
he may use. By observing this rule, we make each theme the solar centre
around which may cluster a great number of secondary ideas, all of which
naturally belong to it, and are undisturbed by satellites from other
systems.
The subjects from which a preacher may choose are innumerable. The Bible
is an inexhaustible storehouse. Its histories, precepts, prophecies,
promises and threatenings, are almost endless. Then all the duties of
human life, and especially those born of the Christian character; the
best methods of making our way to the end of our journey; the hopes
after which we follow; the dangers that beset our path; the mighty
destinies of time and eternity, are a few of the themes that suggest
themselves, and afford room enough for the loftiest talent, during all
the time that man is allowed to preach on earth. If we would search
carefully for the best subjects, and, when found, isolate them from all
others, we would never need to weary the people by the repetition of
thoughts and ideas.
While, as a rule, we ought to shun controversial points, we should not
be afraid to lay hold of the most important subjects that are revealed
to man. These will always command attention; heaven and hell, judgment,
redemption, faith, the fall, and all those great doctrines upon which
the Christian religion rests, need to be frequently impressed on the
people. It is also profitable to preach serial sermons on great
subjects. The rise of the Jewish nation and economy would afford a fine
field for instruction. The life and work of Jesus Christ would be still
better. This latter series might consist of discourses on His birth,
baptism, temptation, first sermon, His teaching in general, some miracle
as a type of all others, transfiguration, last coming to Jerusalem,
Gethsemane, betrayal and arrest, trial, crucifixion, resurrection,
ascension and second advent. Many other subdivisions might be made. Such
linked sermons, covering a wide scope, instruct the people better than
isolated ones could, and afford equal opportunities for enforcing all
Christian lessons. Yet it would not be well to employ them exclusively,
or even generally, as such a practice would tend to wearisome sameness.
The subject must be well defined. It may be of a general nature, but our
conception of it should be so clear that we always know just what we are
speaking about. This is more necessary in an extempore speech than in a
written one, although the want of it will be felt severely even in the
latter. A strong, vividly defined subject will give unity and life to a
whole discourse, and often leave a permanent impression on the mind. To
aid in securing this, it will be well for the preacher, when he has
chosen a subject, to reduce it to its simplest form, and then by writing
it as a phrase or sentence, stamp it on the mind, and let it ring in
every word that is spoken; that is, let each word aid in carrying out
the great idea, or in leading to the desired object, and be valued only
so far as it does this. Those interminable discourses, that seem to
commence anywhere and end nowhere, may be called sermons by courtesy,
but they are not such in reality. The word “sermon” signifies “a
thrust,” which well expresses the concentrativeness and aggressiveness
that should distinguish it, and which nothing but a well-defined theme
can give. It ought not to glitter with detached beauties, like the
starry heavens, but shine with the single, all-pervading radiance of the
sun.
This unity of theme and treatment is not easily preserved. It is hard to
see in the mind’s eye what we know would please and delight those who
listen, and turn away and leave it, but it is often necessary to
exercise this more than Spartan self-denial, if we would not reduce our
sermons to mere random harangues. Not that illustration should be
discarded, for the whole realm of nature may be pressed into this
service, and a good illustration in the right place is often better than
an argument. But nothing, whatever its nature, should be drawn in,
unless it so perfectly coalesces with the parent idea, that a common
vitality flows through them. If this is the case, the unity will be
unbroken, though even then it often happens that the idea would produce
a better effect in connection with another theme, and should be reserved
for it.
Usage has established the practice of employing a passage of Scripture
as the basis of a sermon. This is of great advantage to the minister,
for it gives the discourse something of divine sanction, and makes it
more than a popular address. Opinion is divided as to whether it is best
to select the text, and arrange the discourse to correspond with it, or
reversing this order, to compose the sermon first, and thus secure the
harmony that arises from having no disturbing idea, and at the last
moment choose a text of Scripture that will fit it as nearly as
possible.
No doubt the comparative advantages of these methods will be to a great
degree determined by the occasions on which they are used. When a
subject is of great importance, and we wish to be precise in explaining
it, we may adopt the latter method, but the former is more generally
useful. There are so many valuable ideas and important suggestions in
the words of Scripture, that we can ill afford to deprive ourselves of
this help. For the Bible, with all its ideas, is common property. No
minister need fear the charge of plagiarism, when he borrows, either in
word or thought from its inspired pages. He is God’s ambassador, with
the Bible for his letter of instruction, and the more freely he avails
himself of it, if it be done skillfully, the better for the authority of
his mission. We may often select a subject that appears dark and
confused, but when we have found a passage of Scripture embracing the
same idea, there may be something in it that will solve every doubt, and
indicate the very thoughts we wish to enforce. For this reason we
believe that under ordinary circumstances, the practice of first
constructing the sermon and only at the last moment before delivery,
tacking on a text, is not the best.
Another reason in favor of previously selecting the text is worth
consideration. The people, who are not supposed to know anything of the
subject, expect, when we read a passage of Scripture, as the foundation
of our remarks, that it will be something more than a mere point of
departure. They anticipate that it will be kept always in view, and
furnish the key-note to the whole sermon. This is but reasonable, and if
disappointed, they will not so well appreciate what is really good in
the discourse. We would not sacrifice unity to a mere rambling
commentary on the words of the text. Let the subject be first in the
mind and bend everything to itself. But let the text be next in
importance, and the whole subject be unfolded with it always in view. It
may be feared that the work of sermonizing will be rendered more
difficult by observing this double guidance, but if a proper text be
chosen—one that, in its literal meaning, will embrace the subject—the
labor will be much lightened.
It is a common fault to take a passage of Scripture consisting of a few
words only, and put our own meaning upon it, without reference to the
intention of the inspired writer who penned it. This borders very
closely on irreverence. If we cannot use God’s words in the sense he
uses them, we had better speak without a text at all, and then our sin
will only be a negative one. The taking of a few words divorced from
their connection, and appending them to a discourse or essay, that has
no relation to their true meaning, is not less a profanation than it
would be to prefix the motto, “Perfect love casteth out fear,” to a
fashionable novel. But when, on the other hand, we take a text that
contains our subject, and expresses it clearly, we are prepared to
compose a sermon to the best advantage. The subject present in our own
mind runs through every part of the discourse, making it a living unity,
instead of a collection of loose and disordered fragments; while the
text, being always kept in view by the hearers as well as by the
speaker, leads all minds in the same direction, and gives divine
sanction to every word that is spoken. It is not without reason that the
people, whose tastes are nearly always right, though they may not be
able to give a philosophical explanation of them, complain of their
preacher when he does not “stick to his text.” It is right that he
should so adhere.
A man of genius may neglect this precaution, and still succeed, as he
would do, by mere intellectual force, were he to adopt any other course.
But ordinary men cannot, with safety, follow the example of Sydney
Smith. His vestry complained that he did not talk about the text he
took, and, that he might the more easily reform, they advised him to
divide his sermons as other preachers did. He promised to comply with
their request, and the next Sabbath began, “We will divide our discourse
this morning into three parts; in the first place we will go _up_ to our
text, in the second we will go _through_ it, and in the third we will go
FROM it.” It was generally allowed that he succeeded best on the last
division, but preachers who have not his genius had better omit it.
These rules in relation to the absolute sway of object, subject and
text, may appear harsh and rigid, but cannot be neglected with impunity.
A true discourse of any kind is the orderly development of some one
thought, with so much clearness, that it may ever afterward live as a
point of light in the memory; other ideas may cluster around it, but one
must reign supreme. If it fails in this particular, nothing else will
redeem it. Brilliancy of thought and illustration will be wasted, as a
sculptor’s art would be on a block of clay.
A man of profound genius once arose to preach before a great assemblage,
and every breath was hushed to listen. He spoke with power, and some of
his passages were full of thrilling eloquence. He poured forth beautiful
images and deep solemn thoughts, with the utmost profusion. Yet when he
took his seat a sense of utter disappointment filled the hearts of all
present. The sermon was confused. No subject could be traced that bound
it together, and made a point of union to which the memory might cling.
Had he not read his text no one could have guessed it. It was a most
impressive warning of the necessity of laying a foundation before
erecting a magnificent structure. Had he adhered to the thoughts
expressed in his text, which was one of the richest in the Scriptures,
his eloquence and power would not have been thrown away.